LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

SAN  DIEGO 


LIBRARY 

UHIV£RSITV  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

SAN  DIEGO 


THE  WORKERS 


WE    BKEATIIK    THE    HOT    Alll,    IIKAVV    WITH    THE    .SMELL  OF    FRESH    SOIL,    AND 
THE    SWEAT    DRIPS    FROM    OUlt   FACES    UPON    THE    DAMP    CLAY. 


THE  WORKERS 

0 

AN 

EXPERIMENT  IN  REALITY 


BY 

WALTEE    A.lWYCKOFF 

X^    ^f^ 

ASSISTANT   PROFESSOR  OF  POLITICAL  ECONOMY  IN 
PKINCETON  UNIVERSITY 


THE  EAST 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S   SONS 
1899 


COPYRIGHT,  1897,  BT 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  StlflS 


TROW  DIRECTORY 

MINTING  AND  BOOKBINDING  COMPANY 
NEW  YORK 


TO 

CHANNING  F.   MEEK,   ESQ. 


PREFACE 

THE  preface  to  a  narrative  like  this  must  it- 
self be  of  the  nature  of  a  story  which  will  ac- 
count for  the  expedition  here  described,  and 
make  clear  the  point  of  view  from  which  the 
experiment  was  tried. 

Enough  of  the  actual  setting  of  the  tale  is 
implied  in  a  passing  reference  to  a  charming 
country-seat  on  Long  Island  Sound,  and  the 
presence  there  of  a  fellow-guest,  Mr.  Channing 
F.  Meek — a  chance  acquaintance  to  me  then. 
His  wide  knowledge  of  the  West,  his  intimate 
familiarity  with  practical  affairs,  and  his  catho- 
lic sympathy  with  human  nature,  made  him  a 
man  wholly  new  and  interesting  to  me.  And  in 
our  talk,  which  drifted  early  into  channels  of 
social  questions,  I  could  but  feel  increasingly 
the  difference  between  my  slender,  book-learned 
lore  and  his  vital  knowledge  of  men  and  the 

principles  by  which  the}T  live  and  work, 
vii 


Vlll  PEEFACE 

One  radiant  Sunday  morning  in  midsummer 
there  came  to  me  from  his  talk  so  strong  a  sug- 
gestion of  the  means  of  acquiring  the  practical 
knowledge  that  I  lacked,  and  in  a  way  that  gave 
promise  of  an  experiment  so  interesting,  and  of 
such  high  possibility  of  successful  treatment, 
that  in  that  hour  I  knew  that  I  was  pledged  to 
its  undertaking. 

No  further  disclosure  of  my  animus  is  needed 
than  has  already  been  hinted  at  in  the  fact  of 
a  new,  unoccupied,  inviting  field  and  the  fair 
prospect  which  its  development  offered  to  a 
student  eager  for  a  place  among  original  investi- 
gators. I  cannot,  however,  sufficiently  acknowl- 
edge my  indebtedness  to  the  friends  whose  gen- 
erous sympathy  has  followed  me  throughout  the 
enterprise — especially  that  friend  already  men- 
tioned. To  him  I  owe  the  first  idea  of  the  plan 
and  a  large  measure  of  what  success  has  at- 
tended its  execution. 

The  narrative  form  into  which  I  have  cast 
the  results  of  my  investigation  depends  for  its 
value  solely  upon  careful  adherence  to  the  truth 
of  actual  experience.  This  account  is  strictly 
accurate  even  to  details ;  apart  from  confessed 
changes  in  the  names  of  the  persons  introduced, 


PREFACE  IX 

no  element  of  fiction  has  intentionally  been  al- 
lowed to  intrude. 

It  only  remains  to  say  with  reference  to  my 
attitude  in  the  experiment  itself,  that  I  entered 
upon  it  with  no  theories  to  establish  and  no 
conscious  preconceptions  to  maintain.  As  sin- 
cerely as  I  could,  I  wished  my  mind  to  be  tabula 
rasa  to  new  facts,  and  sensitive  to  the  impres- 
sions of  actual  experience. 

PRINCETON  UNIVERSITY,  October  27,  1897. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER   I 

PASK 

THE  ADJUSTMENT, 1 


CHAPTER  II 
A  DAY-LABORER  AT  WEST  POINT,       .  .    33 

CHAPTER  III 
A  HOTEL  PORTER, 78 

CHAPTER   IV 
A  HIRED  MAN  AT  AN  ASYLUM 108 

CHAPTER  V 
A  FARM  HAND, 144 

CHAPTER  VI 
IN  A  LOGGING  CAMP, 179 

CHAPTER  VII 
IN  A  LOGGING  CAMP  (Concluded),        .       .       .  225 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

WE  BREATHE  THE  HOT  AIR,  HEAVY  WITH  THE 
SMELL  OP  FRESH  SOIL,  AND  THE  SWEAT 
DRIPS  FROM  OUR  FACES  UPON  THE  DAMP 
CLAY, Frontispiece 


FACING 

PAGE 


I  EASILY  PASSED  UNNOTICED  IN  THE  CROWD,    24 

A  WEIRD  PROCESSION,  THIS  FRAGMENT  OP  A 
COMPANY  IN  THE  RANKS  OP  LABOR,  ...  48 

I  HELD  MY  PEACE,  AND  RESPECTFULLY 
TOUCHED  MY  CAP,  INWARDLY  CALLING  HER 
THE  BEAUTY  THAT  SHE  WAS, 94 

THE  MEN  WERE  RISING  FROM  THEIR  SEATS, 
AND  THE  AlR  WAS  FULL  OP  WELCOME,  .  .216 


THE  WORKERS 

CHAPTER  I 

THE    ADJUSTMENT 

HIGHLAND  FALLS,  N.  T., 
Monday,  July  27,  1891. 

THE  boss  at  the  work  on  the  old  Academic 
building  in  West  Point  gave  me  a  job  this  morn- 
ing, and  ordered  me  to  come  to  work  to-morrow 
at  seven  o'clock.  A  gang  of  laborers  is  fast  re- 
moving the  old  building,  which  is  to  give  place 
to  a  new  one.  From  one  of  the  workmen  I 
learned  that  the  men  live  in  Highland  Falls,  a 
mile  down  the  river,  and  so  I  came  here  in  search 
of  a  boarding-house.  There  was  some  difficulty 
in  finding  quarters,  for  the  place  is  crowded  with 
workingmen  attracted  here  by  the  new  build- 
ings at  the  Post  and  work  on  the  railway. 

Mrs.  Flaherty  has  taken  me  in  as  a  boarder. 
That  is  not  her  name,  but  it  sufficiently  indi- 
cates her.  She  came  to  the  door  with  the  odor 
of  soap-suds  and  boiling  cabbage  strong  upon 
1 


2  THE  WORKERS 

her,  and  told  me  at  first  that  she  guessed  that 
she  couldn't  take  me.  She  relented  when  I  ex- 
plained that  I  had  work  at  the  Post ;  and,  hav- 
ing admitted  me  as  a  member  of  her  household, 
she  gave  play  to  her  natural  hospitality.  When 
I  was  shown  to  a  little  carpetless  room  under 
the  roof,  with  two  double  beds  in  it,  I  spoke  of 
needing  water,  and  she  showed  me  where  I  could 
get  a  plentiful  supply.  I  said  that  I  should  like 
to  write,  and  she  at  once  invited  me  from  the 
torrid  heat  of  the  attic  to  a  place  at  her  dining- 
room  table. 

Here  then,  in  the  temporary  security  of  a 
boarding-house,  and  as  an  assigned  member  of 
the  industrial  army,  I  can  review  the  first  week 
of  enlisted  service. 

I  am  vastly  ignorant  of  the  labor  problem, 
and  am  trying  to  learn  by  experience  ;  but  I 
am  so  far  familiar  with  Socialistic  writings  as 
to  know  that,  from  their  point  of  view,  I  have 
not  gone  from  one  economic  class  into  another. 
I  belong  to  the  proletariat,  and  from  being  one 
of  the  intellectual  proletarians,  I  am  simply  be- 
come a  manual  proletaire.  In  other  words,  I 
no  longer  stand  in  the  market  ready  to  sell  what 
mental  ability  I  have,  I  now  bring  to  the  mar- 
ket instead  my  physical  capacity  for  work  ;  and 
I  sell  that  at  its  market  price.  Expressed  in 


THE   ADJUSTMENT  3 

every-day  language,  the  change  is  simply  this : 
from  earning  a  living  as  a  teacher,  I  have  begun 
to  earn  it  as  an  unskilled  laborer. 

But,  nevertheless,  the  change  has  in  it  ele- 
ments of  real  contrast.  One  week  ago  I  shared 
the  frictionless  life  of  a  country-seat.  Friction- 
less,  I  mean,  in  the  movement  of  an  elaborate 
system  which  ministers  luxuriously  to  the  phys- 
ical needs  of  life.  Frictionless,  perhaps,  only  to 
those  to  whom  it  ministers.  Now  I  am  out  of 
all  that,  and  am  sharing  instead  the  life  of  the 
humblest  form  of  labor  upon  which  that  super- 
structure rests. 

This  is  not  a  frictionless  life  in  its  adjustment 
to  daily  needs — very  much  the  reverse.  And 
whatever  may  be  its  compensations,  they  are 
not  of  the  nature  of  easy  physical  existence. 

The  actual  step  from  the  one  manner  of  life 
to  the  other  was  sure  of  its  own  interest.  It 
was  painful  to  say  good-by  on  the  last  evening, 
and  there  was  enough  of  uncertainty  in  the 
prospect  to  account  for  a  shrinking  from  the 
first  encounter  with  a  strange  life ;  but  there 
was  promise  of  adventure,  and  almost  a  certain- 
ty of  solid  gain  in  experience. 

At  sunrise  on  the  next  morning  I  was  ready 
to  set  out.  I  descended  quietly  to  the  hall. 
The  butler  stood  there,  politely  urging  some 


4  THE  WORKERS 

pretended  necessity  as  excuse  for  so  early  an 
appearance,  and  he  invited  me  to  breakfast. 

Often  had  he  seen  me  off  for  a  day's  fishing 
or  shooting  in  the  old  suit  which  I  wore,  but 
I  could  feel  his  eye  fixed  upon  me  now  with 
perplexed  interest.  He  had  heard  my  expedi- 
tion discussed  at  the  table,  and  in  some  vague 
way  he  took  in  that  I  meant  to  earn  my  living 
as  a  workman.  With  his  wonted  dignity,  he 
helped  me  adjust  my  pack  and  strap  it;  and 
then  he  stood  under  the  porte  cochere,  and 
watched  me  hurry  across  the  lawn  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  highway. 

Two  hours'  walk  carried  me  beyond  the  point 
of  my  acquaintance  with  the  country  roads ;  but 
this  presented  no  real  difficulty,  for  I  had  but  to 
keep  a  steadily  westward  course.  Other  details 
of  my  expedition  were  not  so  simple,  and  I  be- 
gan to  have  an  uncomfortable  sense  of  unsus- 
pected difficulty.  I  look  back  from  the  vantage- 
point  of  a  week's  experience,  with  a  feeling  of 
amused  tolerance,  upon  my  naive  preconcep- 
tions. It  is  like  a  retrospect  of  years.  My  no- 
tion of  earning  a  living  by  manual  labor  was  the 
securing  of  an  odd  job  whenever  I  should  need 
a  meal  or  a  night's  lodging.  Much  advice  had 
come  my  way  before  I  set  out.  As  a  means  of 
access  to  people,  I  was  told  to  take  with  me  a 


THE  ADJUSTMENT  5 

book  or  magazine,  and  to  invite  subscriptions.  I 
adopted  this  plan ;  and  a  copy  of  a  magazine 
was  under  my  arm  as  I  walked  on  through  the 
dust  and  heat  of  the  country  road,  wondering 
how  long  it  would  take  me  to  reach  the  Hud- 
son, and  how  I  should  earn  my  first  meal. 

There  was  nothing  at  all  adventurous  or  ex- 
citing in  a  dusty  walk.  My  pack  was  taking  on 
increments  of  weight  with  each  mile  of  the  jour- 
ney. I  was  beginning  to  feel  conscious  of 
change  in  unexpected  ways.  There  was  no 
money  in  my  pocket,  and  a  most  subtle  and  un- 
manning insecurity  laid  hold  of  me  as  a  result 
of  that.  The  world  had  curiously  changed  in 
its  attitude,  or  rather  I  saw  it  at  a  new  angle, 
and  I  felt  the  change  most  keenly  in  the  bear- 
ing of  people.  My  good-morning  was  not  in- 
frequently met  by  a  vacant  stare,  and  if  I  stopped 
to  ask  the  way,  the  conviction  was  forced  upon 
me  that,  as  a  pack-pedler,  I  was  a  suspicious 
character,  with  no  claim  upon  common  consid- 
eration. 

In  the  shade  of  his  porch  sat  the  keeper  of  a 
country  store,  at  a  fork  of  the  road.  His  chair 
was  tilted  against  the  outer  wall,  and  his  feet 
rested  upon  the  balustrade.  My  question  as  to 
the  course  of  the  two  roads  before  me  was  re- 
sponded to  by  the  merchant,  first  with  a  look, 


6  THE   WORKERS 

and  then  a  spurt  of  tobacco-juice,  which  stirred 
the  dust  between  my  feet,  and,  finally,  a  caustic 
sentence  to  the  effect  that  he  'did  not  much 
know,  and  did  not  care  a  damn,'  while  his  blue 
eyes  swept  the  horizon,  and  rested  finally  on  the 
Sound,  gleaming  golden  in  the  morning  sun,  and 
the  purple  line  of  the  Long  Island  shore. 

The  new-born  self-consciousness  which  I  found 
asserting  itself  was  like  a  wound  on  the  hand, 
exposed  to  constant  injury.  I  had  walked  sev- 
eral miles  before  I  summoned  courage  to  speak 
to  anyone  else.  Finally,  very  hot  and  thirsty, 
I  knocked  at  the  door  of  an  unpainted  cottage 
which  stood  on  the  road.  The  door  opened  to 
the  touch  of  an  old  woman,  who  bent  toward  me 
in  the  emaciated  angularity  of  a  decrepit  figure 
which  must  once  have  been  strikingly  tall  and 
vigorous. 

I  asked  leave  to  show  her  the  magazine,  and 
she  invited  me  into  the  cool  of  her  home.  The 
middle  floor  was  covered  with  a  yellow  oil-cloth, 
on  which  there  stood  a  table.  A  large  cooking- 
stove  occupied  one  side  of  the  room.  A  few 
wooden-bottom  chairs  were  ranged  around  the 
walls.  An  old  kitchen  clock  rested  on  the  man- 
tel-shelf ;  and  on  either  side  of  it  hung  a  faded 
photograph,  each  in  an  oval  wooden  frame. 

The  old  woman  asked  me  to  draw  up  a  chair 


THE   ADJUSTMENT  7 

to  the  table,  and  she  sat  beside  me,  looking  with 
the  excited  interest  of  a  child  at  the  pictures 
which  I  showed  her,  but  paying  little  heed,  I 
thought,  to  what  I  was  saying.  Presently,  with- 
out warning,  she  veered  mentally  with  the  facility 
of  childhood,  and  now  she  was  looking  at  me  in- 
tently between  the  eyes,  while  one  long  skeleton 
hand  lay  on  the  open  page  before  her. 

"  Be  you  a  pedler  ?  "  she  asked,  and  her  eyes 
dilated  to  the  measure  of  the  protruding  sockets 
over  which  the  yellow  skin  was  tightly  drawn. 

"  I  am  trying  to  get  subscribers  for  this  mag- 
azine," I  told  her. 

"  Was  you  raised  in  these  parts  ?  " 

My  negative  gave  her  the  opening  for  which  she 
was  unconsciously  feeling.  She  was  born  and 
"  raised "  on  that  spot,  and  had  lived  there  for 
nearly  eighty  years,  and  she  hastened  to  tell  me 
so.  There  was  nothing  voluble  in  the  recital  of 
her  history,  only  a  directness  and  simplicity  of 
speech  and  a  certain  quiet  reserve  which  ren- 
dered the  narrative  absorbing  to  us  both.  Some 
bond  of  sympathy  began  to  make  itself  felt,  for 
she  was  dwelling  on  the  losses  of  her  life,  and, 
quite  unconsciously,  she  wept  as  she  told  me  of 
the  death  of  one  and  another,  until  not  one  of  all 
her  family  or  kindred  was  left  to  her,  except  her 
grandson,  with  whom  she  now  lived.  She  said 


8  THE   WORKERS 

no  word  of  complaint ;  and,  in  the  presence  of 
her  human  sorrows,  she  had  no  memory  of  pov- 
erty, and  of  the  bitter  struggle  against  want 
which  life  had  plainly  been  for  her.  She  was 
sobbing  softly,  with  her  head  bent  upon  the  ta- 
ble, when  she  ceased  speaking,  and  no  comfort 
that  I  could  offer  her  was  comparable  to  the 
relief  that  she  felt  in  telling  her  story.  When 
I  arose  to  go,  she  was  breathing  deeply,  like  a 
comforted  child. 

For  a  stretch  of  several  miles  of  country  road 
I  spurred  myself  to  knock  at  every  door  to 
which  I  came.  My  reception  was  curiously  uni- 
form. I  never  got  beyond  the  request  for  leave 
to  show  the  magazine.  The  reply  was  invari- 
ably a  negative ;  sometimes  polite,  but  always 
emphatic.  Once  I  did  not  get  so  far  as  that. 
A  portly  negress  saw  me  approaching  her  cot- 
tage from  the  road,  and,  standing  strident  on 
guard  before  her  door,  she  shouted  to  me  across 
the  meadow  that  nothing  was  wanted  there,  and 
that  I  might  save  myself  the  walk. 

It  was  nearing  noon,  and  I  was  very  hungry. 
The  question  of  earning  a  meal  was  no  longer  an 
interesting  speculation,  but  a  pressing  necessity. 
I  turned  all  my  attention  to  that.  A  large  iron 
gateway  leading  into  a  cemetery  attracted  me. 
Several  ragged,  tow-headed  children  were  playing 


THE  ADJUSTMENT  9 

about  the  lodge.  One  of  them  told  me  that  his 
father  was  inside,  and  he  indicated  the  general 
direction  of  the  tomb-stones.  I  found  the  dig- 
ger sweating  freely  in  a  half -finished  grave, 
and  instantly  offered  my  help  as  a  means  of 
earning  a  dinner.  The  grave-digger  was  an 
Irishman.  He  leaned  at  ease  upon  his  spade, 
and  soberly  looked  me  over,  and  then  declined 
my  offer.  He  was  polite,  but  not  at  all  com- 
municative, and  he  met  my  advances  with  the 
one  remark  that  his  "  old  woman  "  was  not  at 
home. 

A  little  farther  on,  I  saw  three  women  in  pur- 
suit of  a  hen.  I  eagerly  volunteered  my  help, 
and  asked  for  a  dinner  in  payment.  They  quit 
the  chase,  and  stood  confronting  me  with  serious 
faces,  while  I  eloquently  pleaded  my  readiness 
to  help  them.  Nothing  in  the  situation  seemed 
to  strike  them  as  strange  or  irregular,  but  they 
touched  upon  it  with  short,  grave  speech,  until 
I  had  the  feeling  of  something  momentous,  and 
I  accepted  their  refusal  with  a  sense  of  relief. 

At  last,  in  the  outskirts  of  the  village  of  West- 
port,  I  found  a  man  mowing  his  lawn,  and  he 
was  willing  to  give  me  a  dinner  for  completing 
the  work.  My  final  success  in  getting  an  odd 
job  was  a  splendid  stimulus.  I  urged  the  mower 
over  the  lawn  with  a  vigor  that  surprised  me, 


10  THE   WORKERS 

and  the  dinner  which  I  ate  in  the  dim  corner  of 
an  immaculate  kitchen  was  a  liberal  return  for 
the  labor. 

All  that  long  summer  afternoon  I  went  from 
house  to  house,  asking  subscriptions  for  the 
magazine.  The  rack  would  have  been  easier 
upon  my  feelings,  but  I  was  eager  to  discover 
some  ready  way  of  approaching  people.  Not 
even  the  loafers  at  the  station  were  in  the  least 
inclined  to  share  their  company  with  me.  At 
nightfall  I  earned,  by  sawing  wood  for  an  hour, 
a  supper  and  the  right  to  sleep  in  an  unused 
barn. 

When  I  awoke,  in  the  early  morning,  I  looked 
with  bewilderment  at  the  dull  gray  light  that 
shone  between  the  parted  boards  and  through 
the  rifts  among  the  shingles.  I  came  to  myself 
with  homesickness  in  full  possession  of  me,  and 
my  back  aching  from  the  pressure  of  that  intol- 
erable pack.  At  the  pump  in  the  barn-yard  I 
washed  myself,  and  sat  down  to  eat  a  slice  of 
cold  meat  and  some  pieces  of  bread  which  I  had 
saved  from  supper.  An  unfriendly  collie  watched 
me,  and  growled  threateningly  until  I  won  him 
over  with  a  share  of  the  breakfast. 

The  village  was  muffled  in  a  heavy,  clinging 
fog.  The  buoyancy  of  the  previous  morning 
was  gone.  It  was  with  some  difficulty  that  I 


THE  ADJUSTMENT  11 

found  the  road  which  had  been  pointed  out  to 
me  as  the  shortest  cut  across  country  to  the 
Hudson.  I  could  not  shake  off  the  feeling  of 
homelessness  and  isolation ;  and,  under  its  in- 
fluence, the  lot  of  the  farmers'  boys,  whom  I  met 
driving  their  carts  to  early  market,  appeared  in- 
finitely to  be  desired.  A  life  of  any  honest 
work  which  accounts  for  one,  and  includes  some 
human  fellowship,  and  a  reasonable  certainty  of 
food  and  shelter,  began  to  take  on  undreamed-of 
attractiveness,  in  contrast  with  vagrancy.  I  felt 
outside  of  the  true  order  of  things,  and  as  hav- 
ing no  contact  with  any  vital  current  of  the 
world.  Perhaps  it  was  in  some  measure  the 
Philistine  in  me  asserting  himself,  in  the  absence 
of  his  customary  bath  and  hot  coffee  ;  for,  as  the 
fog  lifted  and  the  sun  appeared,  I  came  upon  a 
brook  which  I  had  only  to  follow  a  hundred 
yards  or  more  to  a  well-shaded  pool,  where  the 
bath  was  soon  achieved,  and  I  emerged  feeling 
that  a  vagrant  life,  with  some  purpose  in  it,  was, 
after  all,  rather  desirable. 

The  morning  was  only  fairly  begun  when  I 
reached  the  village  of  "Wilton,  eight  miles  from 
Westport.  Already  I  was  tired,  and  certain 
muscles  of  the  shoulders  and  back  were  in  violent 
revolt.  I  left  my  pack  at  the  post-office.  Pass- 
ing up  a  street,  which  runs  at  right  angles  to 


12  THE  WOEKEES 

the  one  by  which  I  entered  the  village,  I  pres- 
ently knocked  at  the  last  of  a  row  of  comfortable 
cottages. 

When  the  door  opened  I  knew  instinctively 
that  the  gentleman  who  stood  framed  in  it  was 
the  village  pastor.  I  said  that  I  was  looking  for 
work.  He  asked  me  inside.  I  thought  this  a 
curious  change  of  subject,  but  willingly  followed 
him  into  a  dim  sitting-room,  fragrant  of  perfect 
cleanliness.  I  explained  that  I  was  on  my  way 
to  West  Point  in  search  of  work,  but  was  with- 
out money,  and  so  obliged  to  earn  my  living  by 
the  way,  and  that  I  would  gladly  do  anything 
that  offered  in  payment  for  bread  and  board.  He 
questioned  me  closely,  with  an  evident  purpose 
of  drawing  me  out  further,  and  then  he  abruptly 
offered  me  work  on  his  wood-pile,  and  appeared 
surprised  at  my  instant  agreement. 

The  wood  was  green,  and  the  saw,  with  which 
it  had  first  to  be  cut  into  proper  lengths,  was 
not  sharp,  and  it  was  certainly  not  skilfully 
handled.  The  work  was  hard,  but  at  noon  there 
was  ready  for  me  in  the  shed,  a  dinner  of  beef, 
and  potatoes,  and  slices  of  bread,  which  for 
lightness  and  color  were  like  flakes  of  snow, 
held  by  a  band  of  crisp  brown  crust. 

In  the  afternoon  the  minister  interrupted  my 
work  with  the  request  that  I  would  join  him  in 


THE  ADJUSTMENT  13 

the  house,  and  he  indicated  where  I  could  first 
wash  in  the  wood-shed.  I  steeled  myself  for  a 
lecture  on  the  evils  of  vagrancy,  with  incidental 
references  to  drunkenness  as  its  probable  cause 
in  my  case.  Instead,  I  found  the  family  seated 
for  an  early  "  tea,"  and  myself  invited  to  a  place 
at  the  table.  I  am  bound  to  say  that  I  was 
rattled.  I  had  expected  a  meal  in  the  kitchen, 
and  a  bed  in  common  with  the  preacher's  horse. 

Not  the  least  curious  position  in  which  I  have 
so  far  been  placed,  was  that  which  I  occupied  at 
the  minister's  board.  His  family,  I  shrewdly 
suspect,  did  not  share  his  hospitable  feelings 
toward  me,  and  I  could  venture  a  guess  that  it 
was  under  protest  from  them  that  I  took  a  seat 
next  to  the  minister's  daughter. 

She  was  a  pale,  delicate  girl,  of  seventeen, 
perhaps.  Her  short,  brown  hair  curled  close  to 
her  head,  and  her  dark  eyes  looked  dimly  at  you 
through  huge  spectacles.  The  light,  crisp  stuff 
in  which  she  was  dressed  seemed  to  create  about 
her  an  atmosphere  some  degrees  cooler  than 
that  of  the  rest  of  the  room. 

By  way  of  beginning,  I  offered  some  fatuous 
commonplace  about  the  surrounding  country. 
Instantly  I  realized  that  I  was  not  to  venture 
upon  a  conversation  that  implied  terms  of  social 
equality.  The  child  bristled  with  outraged  dig- 


14  THE  WORKERS 

nity,  and  let  fall  in  reply  a  sharp  monosyllable. 
Further  conversation  with  her  would  have  been 
highly  diverting,  but  not  very  considerate, 
and  so  I  turned  to  my  host,  who  maintained 
through  the  meal  the  air  of  one  who  is  on  the 
defensive,  but  who  is  sustained  by  the  convic- 
tion of  doing  his  duty. 

My  sympathies  were  all  with  the  girl.  Her 
feeling  was  very  natural — so  natural  as  to  sug- 
gest the  rather  disturbing  ideas  with  which 
Count  Tolstoi  is  again  confronting  us.  It  was  a 
very  practical  application  of  the  teaching  of 
brotherhood,  that  of  asking  a  chance  workman 
to  a  seat  at  one's  family  table.  But  if  minister- 
ing to  Him  is  really,  in  part,  in  such  recogni- 
tions of  the  least  of  His  brethren,  the  instinctive 
shrinking  of  the  girl  brought  up  in  a  Christian 
home  in  the  country  was  a  commentary  on  our 
drift  from  the  simplicities  of  the  Gospel. 

In  the  evening  I  went  with  the  minister  to  a 
prayer-meeting  in  his  church.  A  handful  of 
people  sat  at  solemn  intervals  in  the  audience- 
room.  I  was  plainly  the  only  common  laborer 
among  them.  The  men  appeared  to  be  com- 
fortable farmers,  and  there  was  a  village  shop- 
keeper or  two,  while  the  women  were  clearly 
their  wives  and  daughters. 

In  one   of  the  agitating   silences  which  fell 


THE  ADJUSTMENT  15 

upon  the  company  after  the  minister  had  de- 
clared the  meeting  open,  I  rose  and  took  part ; 
and  at  the  door,  when  the  benediction  had  dis- 
missed us,  several  of  the  men  spoke  to  me  cor- 
dially. There  was  entire  kindliness  in  their 
manner,  and  they,  perhaps,  were  not  conscious 
of  showing  surprise  in  welcoming  a  laborer  to 
their  meeting. 

That  night  the  minister  insisted  upon  my  tak- 
ing a  bed  in  his  house.  I  pleaded  an  early  start. 
He,  too,  was  to  be  up  early,  and  in  the  morning 
I  found  him  in  the  kitchen  before  me.  On  the 
table  were  bread  and  milk  ;  and  as  I  ate  I  par- 
ried the  somewhat  searching  questions  of  my 
host. 

My  course  from  Wilton  lay  through  Ridge- 
field  and  Salem  and  Golden's  Bridge,  and  then, 
crossing  the  line  between  Connecticut  and  New 
York,  it  made  direptly  for  the  Hudson  River. 

This  was  no  great  distance ;  but  in  the  early 
stages  of  the  march  I  was  much  delayed  by 
rains.  Driven  to  shelter,  I  found  it  usually  in  a 
barn,  or  a  shed  under  which  were  housed  the 
farming  implements.  Here  is  an  example: 
From  a  sudden  downpour  of  rain  I  ran  to  an 
open  barn.  A  farmer,  whom  I  found  there  un- 
hitching his  horses,  eyed  me  suspiciously,  and 
gave  a  halting  assent  to  my  request  for  shelter. 


16  THE  WOEKEES 

He  soon  left  me  alone.  I  tried  to  read,  and 
could  not.  The  dull  day  was  deeply  depressing. 
Like  the  burden  of  a  haunting  sorrow  the  trial 
of  separation  weighed  upon  me.  It  was  not 
homesickness  alone,  but  added  to  that  a  feeling 
of  isolation.  Poverty,  I  had  thought,  would  at 
once  bring  me  into  vital  contact  with  the  very 
poor.  Instead,  it  had  made  me  an  object  of  un- 
failing distrust.  The  very  poor  I  found  in  an 
occasional  cottage  of  a  farm  laborer,  or  some 
grotesquely  dilapidated  hovel,  swarming  with 
negro  life.  But  they  were  no  more  hospitable 
to  my  approach  than  were  the  well-to-do  farm- 
ers, and  I  met  not  a  single  vagrant  like  myself 
in  the  course  of  my  walk  to  the  Hudson.  I  was 
lonely  with  the  loneliness  of  a  castaway,  and  I 
climbed  into  the  hay-loft  and  fell  asleep.  Here, 
at  least,  was  comfort ;  the  deep,  dreamless  sleep, 
to  which  I  had  long  been  a  stranger,  was  mak- 
ing gracious  advances.  When  I  awoke,  the  rain 
was  past  for  the  time,  and  I  resumed  my  jour- 
ney, with  a  leaden  sky  overhead,  and  soft,  cling- 
ing mud  under  foot ;  but  I  was  strangely  re- 
freshed, and  walked  on  quite  enheartened. 

The  intermittent  rains  interfered  with  my 
progress,  and  increased  the  difficulty  of  finding 
chance  work.  Repeatedly  I  was  offered  a  meal, 
but  denied  the  privilege  of  working  for  it.  For 


THE  ADJUSTMENT  17 

twenty-four  hours  I  went  hungry,  and  spent 
much  of  that  time  asleep  in  a  hole  which  I  bur- 
rowed into  a  hay-stack. 

But  under  a  brightening  sky  on  Friday,  I  was 
given  some  wood  to  chop,  and  the  promise  of  a 
dinner  in  payment. 

The  work  was  soon  done,  and  to  the  dinner 
there  was  given  an  added  pleasure  in  the  com- 
pany of  one  of  the  two  old  women  for  whom  I 
chopped  the  wood.  She  sat  at  the  table  and 
talked  to  me.  Perhaps  she  was  solicitous  for 
her  spoons.  Certainly  she  was  very  entertaining. 
Her  dark  calico  dress  fitted  closely  her  thin  fig- 
ure ;  and  she  sat  very  straight  in  her  chair,  with 
her  hands  folded  in  her  lap,  and  her  eyes  bright 
with  gentle  benignity. 

In  all  the  farming  region  through  which  I 
have  passed  on  my  way  to  the  Hudson,  I  have 
been  much  impressed  by  an  unlooked-for  qual- 
ity in  the  intelligence  of  the  people.  The  books, 
of  which  I  now  and  then  caught  glimpses  in 
their  homes,  were  often  of  a  surprising  range. 
On  the  sitting-room  table  of  one  farm-house  I 
noticed  a  Milton,  and  several  volumes  of  Emer- 
son, and  a  copy  of  Stevenson's  Essays,  besides 
much  current  literature.  Not  infrequently  the 
conversation  of  these  people  had  in  it  a  curious 
suggestion  of  cultivation,  curious  only  because 
2 


18  THE   WOEKERS 

a  dainty  choice  of  words,  and  the  graceful  turn 
of  a  phrase  were  accompanied  by  habitual  inac- 
curacies of  speech.  They  have,  for  example, 
their  own  forms  of  the  verb  "  to  be.  "  "  I  be  " 
and  "  You  be  "  are  invariable  in  their  common 
usage.  I  wondered  whether  the  conventional 
forms  which  they  find  in  their  reading  did  not 
strike  them  as  oddly  foreign. 

The  prim  little  lady  who  sat  near  me  through 
my  dinner  proved  charming.  She  showed  no 
curiosity  about  my  history,  nor  the  least  anxiety 
to  tell  me  hers.  With  an  air  of  quiet  self-pos- 
session she  followed  the  conversation  into  its 
natural  channels,  and  sometimes  followed  it  far  ; 
for  at  one  time  she  was  describing  for  me,  with 
admirable  vividness,  the  methods  of  irrigation 
in  use  in  Colorado.  But  she  consistently  made 
done  do  duty  for  did,  and  she  used,  in  some  of 
her  sentences,  negatives  enough  to  satisfy  the 
needs  of  negation  in  the  purest  of  Attic  speech. 

One  more  incident  of  the  tramp  to  the  Hud- 
son :  Late  on  Friday  afternoon  I  was  nearing 
Golden's  Bridge,  a  village  on  the  Harlem  divis- 
ion of  the  New  York  Central  Railroad.  My 
road  lay  over  the  hills  of  a  rolling  farm-region. 
The  fields  of  corn  were  radiant  with  sunlight  re- 
flected from  great  drops  of  rain  which  rested  on 
the  nodding  blades.  In  the  meadows  was  the 


THE   ADJUSTMENT  19 

rich  sheen  of  the  after-growth.  Golden-rod  and 
sumach  grew  thick  on  the  roadside,  and  half 
concealed  the  rails  of  the  zigzag  fences.  From 
the  forest  there  came  a  breath  of  fragrant  cool- 
ness. 

After  sundown  the  twilight  soon  faded  into 
dark.  My  efforts  to  secure  further  work  had 
been  unsuccessful.  Once  I  was  nearing  the  ruin 
of  a  little  wooden  cottage,  on  the  porch  of  which 
sat  a  woman  enjoying  the  cool  of  the  evening. 
Upon  seeing  me  enter  the  gate  she  fled  within, 
and  slammed  the  door;  and  I  heard  the  key 
turn  in  the  lock.  I  was  growing  tired.  The 
actual  journey  had  not  carried  me  far,  but  the 
long  fast  of  the  previous  day  and  the  toilsome 
walking  over  soft  roads  had  resulted  in  exhaus- 
tion. Scarcely  physical  strength  remained  with 
which  to  move  farther,  and  I  was  ready  to  throw 
myself  down,  with  infinite  relief,  under  any 
chance  shelter,  when  I  caught  sight  of  the  vil- 
lage lights  not  a  quarter  of  a  mile  beyond. 

I  knocked  at  the  first  door  on  the  street.  A 
farmer's  wife  appeared,  and  kindly  offered  to 
consult  her  husband  on  the  subject  of  work. 
She  soon  returned  with  a  favorable  reply,  and 
invited  me  to  follow  her  into  the  kitchen.  Car- 
petless  as  it  was,  and  stained  as  to  walls  and 
ceiling,  and  low,  and  dimly  lighted,  the  shelter 


20  THE  WORKEES 

of  that  room  was  like  softest  luxury.  A  pitcher 
of  milk  and  some  slices  of  bread  were  placed  on 
the  table,  and  I  ate  ravenously. 

At  one  end  of  the  table  sat  the  farmer  in  his 
shirt-sleeves,  with  a  newspaper  spread  before 
him.  He  was  in  the  midst  of  his  haying,  he 
said,  and  had  plenty  of  work,  and  was  willing 
enough  that  I  should  join  the  other  men  in  the 
hayrfield.  The  shed  for  the  hands  was  full,  so 
I  offered  to  go  to  the  barn,  and  was  soon  fast 
asleep  on  the  loose  hay  in  a  stall. 

As  the  farmer  and  I  walked  to  the  barn,  I  had 
taken  occasion  to  fortify  myself  in  the  agree- 
ment regarding  work.  He  was  an  old  man,  very 
hale  and  hearty  and  genial,  and  he  walked  with 
a  curiously  stiff  movement  of  the  legs,  and  with 
his  feet  nearly  at  right  angles  to  the  line  of  prog- 
ress. He  set  my  mind  at  rest  with  the  assur- 
ance that  there  would  be  plenty  of  work  for  me, 
if  the  morning  proved  good. 

The  morning  was  all  that  could  be  desired.  I 
got  up  early,  and  went  to  the  kitchen,  where  an 
Irish  maid-of -all- work  gave  me  a  bit  of  soap  and 
some  water  in  a  tin  basin,  with  which  to  finish 
my  preparation  for  breakfast.  She  was  a  beau- 
tiful girl,  large  and  awkward  and  ill-groomed ; 
but  her  features  were  strikingly  handsome,  and 
her  clear,  rich  complexion  would  of  itself  have 


THE  ADJUSTMENT  21 

constituted  a  claim  to  beauty,  while  sprays  of 
golden  hair  fell  in  effective  curls  about  her  fore- 
head, and  heightened  the  charm  of  her  deep-set 
Celtic  blue  eyes.  I  was  drying  my  face  and 
hands  on  a  coarse  towel  which  hung  on  a  roller 
near  the  kitchen-door,  and  which  was  used  in 
common  by  all  of  the  hired  men.  She  watched 
me  curiously.  Presently  she  ventured  an  in- 
quiry as  to  whether  "  the  boss  "  had  given  me 
"  a  job."  I  said  that  he  had.  "  Her  eyes  were 
homes "  of  deep  concern,  and  in  her  voice  was 
that  note  of  pity  so  effective  in  the  Celtic  ac- 
cent. She  was  saying  that  my  hands  did  not 
look  as  though  I  was  used  to  work.  I  was 
blushingly  conscious  that  my  hands  were  against 
me,  but  she  tactfully  tried  to  relieve  the  situ- 
ation by  supposing  that  I  was  a  "  tradesman." 
Then  had  to  come  the  damaging  confession  that 
I  was  not.  But  the  other  hired  men  now  began 
to  enter,  and  we  sat  down  to  breakfast. 

A  breakfast  on  a  farm  is  not  always  the  appe- 
tizing reality  that  the  inexperienced  imagination 
paints.  The  cloth,  in  this  case,  was  ragged,  and 
showed  signs  of  long  use  since  its  last  washing, 
and  there  were  no  napkins.  The  service  was 
repulsive  in  its  hideous  tastelessness.  Flies 
swarmed  in  the  room,  and  crowded  one  another 
into  our  food.  The  men  were  in  their  working 


22  THE  WORKERS 

clothes,  coatless,  sleeves  rolled  up,  and  their  be- 
grimed shirts  open  at  the  neck.  When  our 
coffee  was  poured  out  and  handed  to  us,  each 
used  his  own  spoon  in  dipping  sugar  from  a 
bowl  which  was  passed  from  hand  to  hand. 
The  butter,  in  a  half -melting  condition,  and 
dark  with  imprisoned  flies,  was  within  reach  of  us 
all,  and  each  helped  himself  with  his  knife,  and 
then  used  it  in  conveying  food  to  his  mouth. 
This  last  feat  I  did  not  try.  There  was  in  it  a 
suggestion  of  necromancy,  and  I  had  doubts  of 
my  success.  We  ate  in  silence,  as  though  the 
gravity  of  the  occasion  was  beyond  speech.  The 
farmer  did  not  appear  until  we  had  finished 
breakfast,  and  I  waited  at  the  kitchen -door  for 
orders  from  him. 

He  came  at  last,  kind  and  cordial  as  ever,  but 
quite  changed  in  purpose  regarding  my  going 
to  work.  He  urged  my  confessed  inexperience, 
and  the  danger  of  exposure  to  the  sun.  I  pro- 
tested my  willingness  to  assume  the  risks,  and 
begged  to  be  allowed  at  least  to  work  for  what 
had  been  given  me.  But  he  would  not  listen, 
and  appeared  to  think  that  he  set  matters  right 
by  assuring  me  repeatedly  that  to  what  I  had 
received  I  was  "  perfectly  welcome."  His  wife 
gave  me,  at  parting,  some  tracts,  and  a  religious 
newspaper,  and  in  these  I  found  presented,  in 


THE  ADJUSTMENT  23 

somewhat  lurid  light,  the  evil  consequences  of 
insobriety. 

Knowing  that  I  was  within  walking  distance 
of  Garrisons-on-Hudson,  I  resolved  to  reach 
that  point  before  night.  My  letters  had  been 
forwarded  there,  and  my  eagerness  to  get  them 
was  of  a  kind  unexperienced  before.  It  was  Sat- 
urday, and,  late  in  the  afternoon,  I  reached  Gar- 
risons after  a  hard  day's  march.  The  heat  was 
intense,  and  although  I  walked  but  a  little  more 
than  twenty  miles,  the  effort  of  carrying  my 
pack  was  thoroughly  exhausting.  The  woman 
in  charge  at  the  post-office  was  in  evident  doubt 
about  the  safety  of  giving  me  so  large  a  packet 
of  letters,  but  yielded  at  sight  of  others  which  I 
showed  her,  and  readily  agreed  to  look  after  my 
pack  until  I  should  call  for  it. 

Between  the  station  and  the  river  was  a  tav- 
ern, and  there  I  meant  to  apply  for  work.  As  I 
neared  the  station  platform,  a  train  from  New 
York  drew  in.  Something  familiar  in  one  of  the 
passengers  who  alighted  put  me  on  my  guard. 
In  a  moment  I  recognized  a  fellow-guest  at  a 
dinner-party  of  a  few  evenings  before,  and  I  re- 
membered, with  an  odd  sense  of  another  exist- 
ence, that,  over  our  coffee,  on  a  broad  veranda, 
overlooking  a  harbor,  bright  with  the  night-lights 
of  a  squadron  of  yachts,  he  had  given  me  the 


24  THE   WOKKERS 

benefit  of  an  amazing  familiarity  with  the  de- 
tails of  the  recent  baccarat  scandal.  My  anxiety 
was  needless,  for  I  easily  passed  unnoticed  in 
the  crowd. 

I  walked  on  to  the  tavern.  Its  keeper  was 
busy  behind  the  bar  when  I  asked  him  for  a  job. 
He  surprised  me  immensely  with  a  ready  prom- 
ise of  work,  and  he  asked  me  to  wait  until  he 
could  arrange  matters.  I  went  into  an  adjoin- 
ing room,  and  took  out  my  letters. 

It  was  the  pool-room,  and  the  walls  were  hung 
with  colored  prints  of  prize-fighters,  with  arms 
folded  on  their  bare  chests  in  a  way  that  put 
their  biceps  much  in  evidence.  And  there  were 
pictures  of  race-horses  which  had  won  distinc- 
tion. An  old,  much-battered  pool-table  occu- 
pied the  middle  of  the  room.  Around  the  walls 
ran  a  rough  wooden  bench.  Dirt  was  every- 
where conspicuous.  The  ceiling  and  walls  were 
filthy.  The  floor  was  bare  and  unswept,  and 
there  were  accumulations  of  dust  about  the 
table-legs  and  in  the  corners  under  the  benches, 
which  could  be  accounted  for  only  by  a  liberal 
allowance  of  time.  The  two  small  windows, 
through  which  one  could  see  the  dismal  tavern 
yard,  apparently  had  never  been  washed. 

I  sat  on  a  bench,  and  opened  the  letters.  The 
dim  past  of  my  "  respectable "  life  began  to 


I   EASILY    PASSED   UNNOTICED   IN   THE   CROWD. 


THE  ADJUSTMENT  25 

brighten  with  increasing  vividness.  Quite  lost 
to  present  surroundings,  I  was  suddenly  re- 
called to  them  by  the  appearance  of  the  boss, 
who  came  with  a  cloth  in  hand,  with  which  he 
aimlessly  dusted  the  table  while  he  questioned 
me.  I  was  so  absorbed  in  letters  that,  for  a 
moment,  I  could  not  place  myself,  nor  in  the 
least  account  for  the  situation.  The  keeper  was 
asking  me  what  I  could  do.  This  was  a  natural 
question  under  the  circumstances;  but  it  took 
me  by  surprise,  and  it  staggered  me.  I  covered 
my  confusion  with  a  profession  of  willingness  to 
be  useful,  and  of  a  desire  to  work.  The  boss,  a 
coarse,  blear-eyed,  sensuous-looking  man,  eyed 
me  doubtfully,  and  suddenly  concluded  that  he 
had  no  work  for  me. 

But  I  was  wide  awake  now.  I  knew  that  the 
nearest  farms  were  some  miles  back  in  the  coun- 
try, and  that,  except  at  the  tavern,  I  had  slender 
chance  of  food  or  shelter.  I  said  that  if  there 
was  work  to  be  done,  I  was  eager  to  do  it,  and 
that  if,  after  a  trial,  he  found  me  incapable,  he 
could  dismiss  me  at  any  moment. 

I  fancied  that  I  had  gained  my  point,  for  he 
told  me  to  follow  him,  as  he  led  the  way  into 
the  kitchen.  There  we  found  the  cook  bend- 
ing over  a  range,  in  which  the  fire  refused  to 
burn. 


26  THE   WORKERS 

"  Mrs.  Murphy,"  said  the  boss,  "  here's  a  man 
I've  hired  to  help  Sam,"  and  then  he  turned 
sharply  upon  me  with  a  "  Damn  you  now,  work ! 
if  you  know  how  to  work ! " 

My  opportunity  lay  in  the  smouldering  fire, 
so  I  hastened  to  the  wood-pile,  and  presently 
returned  with  an  armful  of  fine  wood  which 
insured  a  fire  for  dinner. 

Mrs.  Murphy  was  a  little,  old,  emaciated  Irish 
woman,  with  her  thin  white  hair  parted  in  the 
middle,  smoothed  back,  and  twisted  into  a  care- 
less knot  on  her  crown.  Her  face  was  wrinkled 
almost  to  grotesqueness,  and  she  had  the  passive 
air  of  one  to  whom  can  come  no  surprises  of  joy 
or  sorrow,  as  though  the  capacity  for  sensation 
were  gone,  and  life  had  reduced  itself  to  mere  ex- 
istence. I  watched  for  opportunities  of  helping 
her,  and  she  accepted  the  services  as  though  she 
had  been  accustomed  to  them  always. 

She  began  to  interest  me  deeply.  I  learned 
from  her  that  Sam,  whom  I  was  hired  to  help, 
was  a  scullion  and  stable  boy.  When  she  had 
nothing  further  for  me  to  do  in  the  kitchen,  I 
returned  to  the  wood-pile,  and  chopped  indus- 
triously, hoping  to  give  evidence  of  my  fitness 
for  the  place.  In  an  hour  or  more  the  propri- 
etor called  me,  intending,  I  supposed,  to  give 
me  a  change  of  work ;  but,  instead,  he  gave  me 


THE   ADJUSTMENT  27 

a  quarter,  and  told  me,  not  unkindly,  but  firmly, 
that  lie  did  not  want  me. 

The  situation  was  discouraging.  I  had  tramped 
some  twenty  miles  through  dust  and  heat  over 
a  hilly  country,  and  since  the  early  morning  I 
had  had  nothing  but  a  few  apples  to  eat.  Be- 
sides, it  was  fast  growing  dark,  and  so  too  late 
to  look  for  work  on  the  farms  back  in  the  coun- 
try. 

The  immediate  neighborhood  is  largely  taken 
up  with  country-seats,  and  I  made  repeated  ef- 
forts to  get  work  at  the  hands  of  a  gardener.  I 
soon  discovered  that  I  was  in  a  community 
where  special  provision  is  made  against  my 
class.  At  the  carriage  gates  I  not  infrequently 
found  a  notice  which  warned  me  of  the  presence  of 
dogs,  and  although  the  dogs  gave  me  no  trouble, 
a  lodge-keeper,  or  footman,  or  gardener,  upon 
learning  my  errand,  was  invariably  seized  with 
fervent  anxiety  for  getting  me  unnoticed  out  of 
the  grounds. 

At  nightfall  I  walked  back  to  the  tavern,  and 
asked  the  proprietor  if  I  might  sleep  in  his 
stables.  To  my  surprise,  he  was  exceedingly 
friendly.  He  readily  agreed  to  that,  and,  of  his 
own  accord,  he  invited  me  to  remain  at  the  tav- 
ern over  Sunday,  and  to  take  my  meals  in  the 
kitchen ;  and  he  added  that,  on  Monday  morn- 


28  THE   WORKEES 

ing,  he  would  give  me  some  work  to  do  as  com- 
pensation. 

Already  I  had  made  a  friend  of  the  cook,  and 
she  now  received  me  warmly.  Perhaps  it  was 
her  habitual  good-nature,  for  she  had  the  same 
kindly  manner  toward  the  other  men,  Sam  and 
the  three  Irish  section  hands  from  the  railway, 
who  took  their  meals  with  her.  More  than  ever 
I  was  attracted  to  her.  She  cordially  greeted 
the  workmen  as  they  entered  her  hot,  reeking, 
ill-lit  kitchen,  addressing  them  by  affectionate 
diminutives  of  their  first  names,  as  Johnnie  and 
Jiinmie  and  the  like.  They  clearly  had  a  warm 
regard  for  her,  and  they  respectfully  lowered 
their  voices  and  said  "  ma'am "  in  addressing 
her.  To  be  sure  they  swore  viciously  in  her  pres- 
ence ;  but  then  she  swore,  too,  not  ill-naturedly, 
but  simply  as  an  habitual  means  of  emphasizing 
her  usual  language. 

I  watched  her  for  some  sign  of  ill-temper.  In 
stifling  quarters  and  under  exasperating  incon- 
veniences she  toiled  on  at  work  far  beyond  her 
strength,  not  patiently  merely,  but  with  the 
cheerfulness  which  is  always  thoughtful  of  the 
comfort  of  others. 

In  spite  of  fatigue,  that  night  in  the  stable  was 
not  a  restful  one.  The  air  lay  heavy  and  hot  in 
the  un ventilated  loft,  and  through  the  night  the 


THE  ADJUSTMENT  29 

horses,  tortured  by  flies,  stamped  ceaselessly  in 
their  stalls.  About  midnight  two  men  came 
into  the  barn.  I  soon  knew  them  for  bedless 
wanderers  like  myself,  and  I  awaited  them  in 
the  hay  with  an  interest  that  was  lively.  They 
did  not  climb  to  the  loft,  but  lay  down  in  a 
wagon ;  and  for  an  hour  or  more  I  heard  their 
gruff  voices  in  antiphonal  sentences  replete  with 
strange  oaths.  They  were  speaking  in  low  tones 
and  not  excitedly,  but  their  speech  seemed  little 
else  than  profanity. 

The  heat  and  darkness  intensified  the  quiet  of 
the  night.  The  breathless  stillness  was  broken 
only  by  the  hoarse  blasphemies  below,  and  the 
nervous  stamping  of  the  pestered  brutes.  I 
tried  to  shut  out  the  sounds,  and  at  last  fell 
asleep. 

In  the  early  morning  I  awoke  to  a  beautiful 
mid-summer  Sunday,  the  first  of  my  vagrant 
life.  Sam  was  whistling  at  his  work  in  the 
stables  and  the  tramps  were  gone.  I  found  a 
path  behind  the  barn  leading  to  a  point  on  the 
river-bank  where  I  could  bathe. 

The  military  cadets  were  out  on  Sunday  pa- 
rade, and  the  music  of  their  band  was  the  sum- 
mer morning  itself,  vocal  in  notes  other  than  the 
songs  of  birds,  and  the  soft  murmur  of  the  river. 
The  tents  of  the  camp  shone  spotlessly  white  on 


30  THE   WORKERS 

the  bluffs  above  the  water.  Some  of  the  build- 
ings were  visible  among  the  trees.  The  sheer 
approach  to  the  Post  and  its  dark  background 
of  well- wooded  highlands  threw  into  strong  re- 
lief its  commanding  position.  Among  the  hills 
to  the  north  the  river  appears.  The  immediate 
section  of  it  might  be  a  lake,  girt  with  steep  hills, 
that  are  dense  with  infinite  shades  of  green. 
About  the  Post  the  river  sweeps  in  a  magnifi- 
cent curve,  and  disappears  among  the  hills  to 
the  south. 

The  few  books  that  my  pack  contained  made 
generous  amends,  on  this  day  of  rest,  for  the 
weight  which  they  had  added  to  my  load.  After 
breakfast  I  took  one  of  them  to  a  shaded  corner 
of  the  church-yard,  and  read  there  until  the 
service  hour,  and  then  I  slipped  into  a  seat  half 
hidden  by  the  baptismal  font. 

In  his  sermon  the  rector  contrasted  the  emas- 
culated ideas  of  the  present  with  reference  to 
Grod's  judgment  of  sin,  with  the  virile  thinking 
of  the  Middle  Ages,  expressed  in  such  works  of 
art  as  Dante's  Inferno,  and  Angelo's  Last  Judg- 
ment in  the  Sistine  Chapel.  Earnestly  and  elo- 
quently he  pleaded  the  reality  of  spiritual  things 
to  the  minds  of  men  in  those  ages  of  belief,  and 
then  he  solemnly  urged  a  return  to  the  plain 
truths  of  inspiration,  and  to  the  teaching  of  the 


THE   ADJUSTMENT  31 

Church,  that  "God  cannot  look  upon  sin  with 
the  least  degree  of  allowance,"  and  that  the  pun- 
ishment of  unrepented  evil  is  "  eternal  death." 

The  church  was  well  filled,  and  I  looked  it 
over  with  a  quickened  interest.  The  sexton 
and  I,  so  far  as  I  could  see,  were  the  only  repre- 
sentatives of  the  poor.  Outside  were  p,  number 
of  coachmen  and  grooms  and  nurse-maids ;  but 
these,  it  is  likely,  were  of  another  persuasion. 
Certainly  they  would  have  looked  curiously  out 
of  place  to  our  Protestant  eyes  among  that  well- 
dressed,  prosperous  company.  I  knew  this  body 
of  worshippers  at  a  glance  ;  some  of  them  I 
knew  personally.  It  wras  easy  to  follow  them  all 
in  imagination  to  country  houses  where  the  after- 
noon would  be  spent  in  what  escape  there  offered 
from  the  heat.  On  the  next  day  would  be  be- 
gun again  the  round  of  wholesome  recreation 
and  of  social  intercourse,  relieved  from  the  for- 
mality of  town  life,  which  makes  up  the  summer 
rest,  and  which  implies  the  leisure  which  is  ren- 
dered possible  only  by  the  continuous  work  of  a 
multitude  of  the  poor,  who  constitute  the  parts 
of  intricate  social  and  domestic  machinery.  I 
seem  to  be  dwelling  upon  a  costly  immunity 
from  physical  labor.  It  was  not  this  that  ap- 
pealed to  me.  These  worshippers  had  leisure, 
but  they  were  far  from  being  idle.  My  personal 


32  THE  WORKERS 

acquaintance  went  far  enough  to  recognize  among 
them  persons  whose  lives  are  full  of  strenuous 
activity  in  channels  of  splendid  usefulness.  It 
was  the  social  cleavage  which  yawned  to  my 
vision  from  the  new  point  of  view.  The  rich 
were  there  in  the  house  of  God,  but  not  the 
poor;  an<jl  the  very  atmosphere  of  the  place 
seemed  to  preclude  the  presence  of  the  poor. 

I  had  asked  Sam  to  go  to  church  with  me. 
Sam  had  been  watering  the  horses,  and  now  had 
an  empty  bucket  in  each  hand  and  some  tobacco 
in  his  mouth.  He  stood  still  for  a  moment,  re- 
garding rne  intently,  and  shifting  the  tobacco 
from  one  cheek  to  the  other.  Then  he  asked  me 
with  much  directness  if  I  took  him  for  a  "dude." 
I  said  that  I  should  then  go  alone.  "  That 
way  ?  "  asked  Sam,  with  an  eye  to  my  gear.  "  It 
is  the  best  that  I  can  do,"  I  explained.  "  Then 
go,  and  be  fired  for  a  bum,"  he  replied,  as  he 
moved  on  toward  the  pump. 


CHAPTEB  II 

A  DAY-LABOEEB  AT  WEST  POINT 

HIGHLAND  FALLS,  N.  Y., 
Monday,  August  3,  1891. 

AT  three  o'clock  on  Saturday  afternoon  I  de- 
cided to  quit  work  on  the  old  Academic  build- 
ing. I  went  up  to  the  boss  and  told  him  of  my 
intention,  as  I  had  seen  other  men  do,  and  was 
ordered  into  the  office  ;  there,  without  a  mo- 
ment's delay,  the  timekeeper's  books  were  con- 
sulted, and  No.  6  was  paid  the  five  dollars  and 
eighty-five  cents  which  were  due  him.  Five  dol- 
lars are  gone  to  Mrs.  Flaherty  for  board  ;  seven- 
ty-five cents  more  will  be  owing  to  her  to-morrow 
morning  for  another  day,  and  then  I  shall  set 
out  on  the  road  with  ten  cents  in  my  pocket. 

I  had  calculated  upon  a  balance  far  in  excess 
of  that ;  for  when  I  went  to  work  on  Tuesday, 
five  full  working-days  were  before  me,  and,  at  a 
wage  of  one  dollar  and  sixty  cents,  they  were  to 
yield  an  income  of  eight  dollars.  My  reckon- 
ing left  out  the  chance  of  rain.  For  three  days 
passing  showers  drove  us  to  cover,  and  the 
3  33 


34  THE   WOEKEBS 

"  called  time  "  was  as  closely  noted  by  the  boss 
as  it  is  by  the  referee  in  a  foot-ball  game  ;  only 
we  were  given  no  chance  to  make  it  up. 

Mrs.  Flaherty's  home  has  a  real  hold  upon 
my  affections.  It  is  one  in  my  mind  with  the 
blessed  interludes  of  rest  which  were  brief  tran- 
sitions from  one  aeon  of  work  to  another.  My 
acquaintance  with  the  household  covers  a  period 
of  incalculable  time.  Mrs.  Flaherty  wears  tow- 
ard me  now  a  motherly  air  of  possession ;  and 
she  wrinkles  her  brows  in  perplexed  protest 
when  I  tell  her  that  I  am  going  away  in  the 
morning,  with  no  knowledge  of  where  I  shall 
find  another  place ;  and  she  wipes  her  mouth 
with  the  corner  of  her  apron,  and  tells  me,  with 
increasing  emphasis,  that  I'd  better  stay  by  my 
job,  and  let  her  care  for  me  decently,  and  not  go 
wandering  about  the  country,  and,  as  likely  as 
not,  come  to  harm. 

Her  husband  is  a  painter,  a  little  round  man 
with  red  hair  and  high  spirits,  who  is  a  well- 
preserved  veteran  of  the  Civil  War,  and  very 
fond  of  telling  you  of  his  life  as  a  "  recruitie." 

Minnie  is  their  daughter.  She  inherits  her 
father's  hair,  and  gives  promise  of  his  rotundity. 
But  just  now  Minnie  is  fifteen,  and  the  world  is 
a  very  interesting  and  exciting  place.  She  took 
her  first  communion  last  Easter,  and  still  wears 


A  DAY-LABORER  AT   WEST   POINT          35 

her  confirmation  dress  on  Sundays,  and  is  really 
pretty  in  a  blushing  effort  to  look  unconscious 
when  Charlie  McCarthy  calls. 

Charles  appears  regularly  on  Sunday  after- 
noons, I  gather.  He  is  a  driver  for  an  ice- 
dealer,  is  not  much  older  than  Minnie,  and  is 
very  proud  of  a  light  gray  suit  and  a  pair  of 
highly  polished  brown  boots. 

Tom  is  Minnie's  only  brother.  He  is  a  stoker 
on  a  river-boat,  and  can  spend  only  his  Sundays 
at  home.  Tom  is  a  little  past  his  majority,  and 
takes  himself  very  seriously  as  a  man.  He  tells 
you  frankly  that  he  is  earning  "big  money," 
and  is  anxious  that  you  shall  not  escape  the 
knowledge  that  he  is  a  libertine. 

The  child  that  he  is  came  comically  to  the 
surface  last  night,  with  no  least  regard  for  the 
newly  found  dignity  of  manhood.  Tom  shares 
one  of  the  beds  in  my  room,  and  in  the  middle 
of  the  night  he  came  bounding  to  the  floor  in 
a  nightmare,  and  running  to  the  door  began 
pounding  it  with  both  hands,  and  screaming, 
"  Papa  !  Papa  ! "  like  a  child  in  a  paroxysm  of 
fear.  He  soon  woke  himself,  and  then  he  slunk 
into  bed  and  was  surly  with  us  as  we  crowded 
about  him,  eager  to  know  the  cause  of  this  vio- 
lent awaking. 

Jerry  and  Pete  and  Jim  and  Tom  Wilson  and 


36  THE   WOKKEKS 

I  are  the  boarders.  Wilson's  is  the  only  sur- 
name that  I  know.  Surnames  are  little  in  use 
on  this  level  of  society;  they  smack  of  a  cer- 
tain formality  like  that  which  attaches  to  Sun- 
day clothes.  We  were  all  sitting  on  the  porch 
after  supper  on  my  first  evening,  and  I  knew 
that  the  men  were  taking  my  measure.  Jerry 
broke  the  silence  with  an  abrupt  inquiry  after 
my  name.  I  responded  with  my  surname. 
Jerry  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth,  and  turned 
to  me  with  some  warmth  :  "  That's  not  what  I 
want  to  know.  What's  your  first  name?  What's 
a  man  to  call  you  ?  "  "  Oh,  call  me  John,"  I 
said,  with  sudden  inspiration,  and  I  have  passed 
as  "  John  "  accordingly. 

Wilson  and  I  worked  together  at  unskilled 
labor,  and  we  have  a  bed  in  common;  and  it 
was  during  a  night  of  fearful  heat,  when  neither 
of  us  could  sleep,  that  Wilson,  in  a  burst  of 
confidence,  told  me  his  full  name. 

I  had  noticed  him  as  a  new-comer  on  the 
works  on  Wednesday  morning.  He  accepted 
the  job  with  alacrity,  and,  in  spite  of  evident 
physical  weakness,  he  went  to  work  with  fever- 
ish energy.  At  noon  hour  we  shared  a  dinner, 
and  he  told  me  that  he  had  slept  in  the  open 
for  three  nights  running,  and  had  had  nothing 
to  eat  since  the  previous  noon.  I  referred  him 


A  DAY-LABORER  AT   WEST   POINT          37 

to  Mrs.  Flaherty,  and  at  supper  I  found  him  at 
a  place  at  her  table. 

It  was  that  night  that  he  gave  me  his  confi- 
dence. Two  years  ago  he  came  to  America 
from  the  north  of  Ireland.  From  the  first  he 
had  found  it  hard  to  get  work,  and  he  had  never 
kept  a  job  long.  This  was  chiefly  due,  he  said, 
to  his  having  been  brought  up  to  the  work  in 
the  linen-mills,  and  to  the  difficulty  that  he 
found  in  adapting  himself  to  any  other.  And 
now  his  narrative  suddenly  glowed  with  active 
personal  interest,  for,  with  each  succeeding  sen- 
tence about  his  apprenticeship  in  Lurgan,  there 
rose  into  clearer  memory  visions  of  a  charming 
fortnight  once  spent  at  the  home  of  the  owners 
of  the  mill. 

I  have  set  for  myself  to-day  the  task  of  de- 
scribing the  past  week  of  actual  service  in  the 
ranks  of  the  industrial  army.  My  pen  runs 
wide  of  the  subject,  and  I  have  to  force  it  to  the 
retrospect.  There  were  five  working-days  of 
nine  hours  and  a  quarter  each,  less  the  "  called 
time  "  eaten  out  by  the  rain.  Never  was  there 
clearer  proof  of  the  pure  relativity  of  time  meas- 
ured by  an  artificial  standard.  Hours  had  no 
meaning;  there  were  simply  ages  of  physical 
torture,  and  short  intervals  when  the  physical 
reaction  was  an  ecstasy. 


38  THE  WORKERS 

We  were  called  at  six  on  Tuesday  morning ; 
and  at  twenty  minutes  to  seven  we  had  break- 
fasted, and  were  ready  to  start  for  the  works, 
each  with  his  dinner  folded  in  a  piece  of  news- 
paper. Passing  from  our  side  street  to  the  road 
which  leads  to  the  Post,  we  were  at  once  merged 
in  a  throng  of  workinginen  moving  in  our  di- 
rection. 

I  was  suddenly  aware  of  a  novel  impression 
of  individuality.  Gangs  of  workinginen,  as  I 
recalled  them,  were  uniform  effects  in  earth- 
stained  jeans  and  rugged  countenances,  rough 
with  a  varying  growth  of  stubborn  beard.  To 
have  distinguished  among  them  would  have 
seemed  like  distinguishing  among  a  crowd  of 
Chinese.  Now  individuality  began  to  appear  in 
its  vital  separateness,  and  to  awaken  the  sense 
of  infinite  individual  sensation,  from  which  we 
instinctively  shrink  as  we  do  from  the  thought 
of  unbroken  continuity  of  consciousness. 

But  my  eyes  were  growing  sensitive  to  other 
differences,  certainly  to  the  broad  distinction  be- 
tween skilled  and  unskilled  workmen.  Many 
orders  of  labor  were  represented — masons  and 
carpenters  and  bricklayers  and  plasterers,  be- 
sides unskilled  laborers.  An  evident  superior- 
ity in  intelligence,  accompanied  by  a  certain  in- 
definable superiority  in  dress,  was  the  general 


A  DAY-LABORER  AT   WEST  POINT          39 

mark  of  skilled  labor.  And  then  the  class  of 
unskilled  workers  was  noticeably  heterogeneous 
in  composition,  while  many  of  the  other  class 
were  plainly  of  American  birth. 

It  is  a  mile  from  Highland  Falls  to  West 
Point,  and  we  moved  briskly.  There  was  little 
conversation  among  the  men.  Most  of  them 
had  taken  off  their  coats,  and  with  these  over 
their  arms  and  their  dinner-pails  in  hand, 
they  walked  in  silence,  with  their  eyes  on  the 
road.  The  morning  was  sultry  and  overhung 
with  heavy  clouds,  full  of  the  promise  of  rain. 
A  forest  lines  much  of  the  road,  and  from  the 
overhanging  boughs  fell  great  drops  of  dew, 
dotting  the  surface  of  soft  dust.  The  wayside 
weeds  and  bushes  were  gray  with  a  coating  of 
dust,  and  seemed  to  cry  out  in  the  still,  hot  air 
for  the  suspended  rain. 

The  old  Academic  building  stood  near  to  the 
Mess  Hall  at  the  southern  end  of  the  Post.  In 
process  of  removal  one  wing  had  been  blown 
up  by  dynamite,  I  was  told,  and  now  its  site  lay 
deep  in  heaps  of  debris.  It  was  here  that  one 
gang  of  laborers  was  employed,  and  it  was  with 
them  that  the  boss  had  instantly  given  me  a  job 
upon  my  application  on  the  previous  morning. 

There  were  about  sixty  men  in  the  company. 
Most  of  them  stood  grouped  among  the  ruins, 


40  THE   WOEKEES 

ready  to  begin  work  on  the  hour.  I  had  but  to 
follow  their  example.  I  hung  my  coat,  with  my 
dinner  in  one  pocket,  on  a  neighboring  fence, 
and  brought  a  shovel  from  the  tool-house,  and 
joined  the  other  men.  We  stood  silent,  like  a 
company  at  attention.  The  teamsters  drove  up 
with  their  carts,  and  the  bosses  counted  them. 
In  another  moment  the  head  boss,  who  had  been 
keeping  his  eye  on  his  watch,  shut  the  case  with 
a  sharp  metallic  click,  and  shouted  "  Turn  out ! " 
in  stentorian  tones. 

The  effect  was  magical.  The  scene  changed 
on  the  instant  from  one  of  quiet  to  one  of  noisy 
activity.  Men  were  loosening  the  ruined  mass 
with  their  picks,  and  urging  their  crow-bars  be- 
tween the  blocks  of  stone,  and  shovelling  the 
finer  refuse  into  the  carts,  and  loading  the 
coarser  fragments  with  their  hands.  The  gang- 
boss,  mounted  upon  a  section  of  wall,  began  to 
direct  the  work  before  him.  A  cart  had  been 
driven  among  the  ruins,  and  he  called  three  of 
us  to  load  it  with  the  jagged  masonry  that  lay 
heaped  about  it.  It  was  too  coarse  to  be  han- 
dled with  shovels,  and  we  went  at  it  with  our 
hands.  They  were  soon  bleeding  from  contact 
with  the  sharp  edges  of  rock  ;  but  the  dust 
acted  as  a  styptic  and  helped  vastly  in  the  hard- 
ening process.  When  the  cart  was  loaded,  an- 


A  DAY-LABORER  AT   WEST   POINT          41 

other  took  its  place,  and  then  a  third  and  a 
fourth. 

In  a  harsh,  resonant  voice  the  boss  was 
shouting  his  orders  over  our  heads,  to  the  far- 
thermost portion  of  the  works.  His  short, 
thickset,  muscular  figure  seemed  rooted  to  the 
masonry  on  which  he  stood.  The  mingled 
shrewdness  and  brute  strength  of  his  hard  face 
marked  him  as  a  product  of  natural  selection 
for  the  place  that  he  filled.  His  restless  gray 
eyes  were  everywhere  at  once,  and  his  whole 
personality  was  tense  with  a  compelling  physi- 
cal energy.  If  the  work  slackened  in  any  por- 
tion of  the  ruins,  his  voice  took  on  a  vibrant 
quality  as  he  raised  it  to  the  shout  of  "  Now, 
boys,  at  it  there ! "  and  then  a  lash  of  stinging 
oaths.  You  could  feel  a  quickening  of  muscular 
force  among  the  men,  like  the  show  of  eager  in- 
dustry in  a  section  of  a  school-room  that  has 
fallen  suddenly  under  the  master's  questioning 
eye. 

In  the  dust  which  rose  from  the  debris  I 
picked  up  a  mass  of  heavy  plaster,  and,  before 
detecting  my  mistake,  I  tossed  it  into  the  cart. 
But  the  boss  had  seen  the  action,  and  instantly 
noticed  the  error,  and  now  all  his  attention  was 
directed  upon  me.  In  short,  incisive  sentences, 
ringing  with  malediction,  he  cursed  me  for  an 


42  THE   WOKKERS 

ignoramus  and  threatened  me  with  discharge. 
I  could  feel  the  amused  side-glances  of  the  men, 
and  could  hear  their  muffled  laughter. 

At  last  all  the  carts  were  loaded  and  driven 
away,  and  until  their  return,  some  of  us  were 
set  at  assorting  the  debris — throwing  the  splin- 
tered laths  and  bricks  and  fragments  of  stone 
and  plaster  into  separate  heaps.  The  work 
compelled  a  stooping  posture,  and  the  pain  of 
lacerated  fingers  was  as  nothing  compared  with 
the  agony  of  muscles  cramped  and  forced  to  un- 
accustomed use. 

A  business-like  young  fellow,  with  the  air  of  a 
clerk,  now  began  to  move  among  the  men,  and 
they  showed  the  keenest  interest  in  his  approach. 
I  heard  them  speak  of  him  as  the  "  timekeeper," 
but  I  had  no  knowledge  of  such  a  functionary, 
and  I  wondered  whether  he  had  any  business 
with  me.  He  hailed  me  with  a  brisk  "What  is 
your  number  ?  "  I  looked  at  him  in  surprise. 
"  He's  a  new  hand,"  shouted  the  boss  from  his 
elevation.  "What's  your  name?"  asked  the 
timekeeper,  as  he  turned  a  page  in  his  book.  I 
told  him,  and  when  he  had  written  it  he  drew 
from  his  pocket  a  brass  disk,  upon  which  was 
stamped  the  number  six,  and  this  he  told  me  to 
wear,  suspended  by  its  string,  and  to  show  ic  to 
him  as  often  as  he  made  his  rounds. 


A  DAY-LABORER  AT  WEST   POINT          43 

The  cartmen  had  reappeared  and  received 
their  loads,  and  had  again  driven  off,  in  long 
procession,  in  the  direction  of  Highland  Falls. 
We  went  back  to  the  varied  torture  of  assorting. 
But  the  pain  was  not  purely  physical.  The 
work  was  too  mechanical  to  require  close  atten- 
tion, and  yet  too  exhausting  to  admit  of  mental 
effort.  I  did  not  know  how  to  prevent  my  mind 
from  preying  upon  itself. 

At  last  I  hit  upon  a  plan  which  appealed  to 
me.  I  simply  went  back  in  imagination  to  the 
familiar  country-seat,  and  followed  the  morn- 
ing through  a  likely  course.  We  met  at  break- 
fast, and  complained  of  the  discomfort  of  the 
sultry  day  as  we  discussed  our  plans,  and 
then  we  walked  over  the  lawn  to  the  pier. 
Two  cruising  sloops,  that  had  waited  in  the 
hope  of  a  freshening  breeze,  now  weighed 
anchor,  and  under  main-sail  and  top-sail  and 
jib  drifted  slowly  out  of  the  harbor.  We 
watched  them  in  idle  curiosity,  wondering  at 
the  distinctness  with  which  the  conversation  of 
the  yachtsmen  came  back  to  us  across  the  oily 
placidity  of  still  water,  until  they  seemed  almost 
half  way  to  the  spindle,  and  then  we  agreed 
upon  a  morning  ride.  We  telephoned  to  the 
stables,  and  before  we  were  ready  the  horses 
stood  restless  under  the  porte-cochere.  Step  by 


44  THE  WOEKEES 

step  I  followed  our  progress  along  the  road  that 
skirts  the  inlet,  and  across  the  crumbling  bridge 
on  the  turnpike,  and  under  the  great,  drooping 
elms  which  line  the  village-street  in  Fairfield, 
and  up  the  long  ascent  of  the  Greenfield  Hill  to 
the  old  church,  and  then  home  by  the  "  back 
road."  The  dogs  came  running  at  us  from  the 
stables  with  short,  sharp  barks  of  welcome  as  we 
cantered  past,  and  we  called  to  them  by  name. 
As  we  turned  by  the  reservoir,  we  could  see  a 
groom  running  down  the  path  in  order  to  reach 
the  house  before  us.  Hot  from  the  ride,  we 
passed  through  the  dim  mystery  of  the  hall  and 
billiard-room  and  den,  and  out  upon  the  ver- 
anda, where  a  breath  of  air  was  stirring,  and  the 
fountain  played  softly  in  its  bed  of  vines  and 
flowers.  Louis  had  returned  from  market.  Our 
letters  lay  in  order  on  the  settle,  and  near  them, 
neatly  folded,  were  the  morning  papers.  And 
now  Louis's  approach  was  heralded  by  the  tink- 
ling of  ice  against  the  glass  of  bumpers  of  cool- 
ing drinks,  and  his  bow  was  accompanied  with 
a  polite  reminder  that  luncheon  would  be  served 
in  half  an  hour. 

I  had  been  working  with  all  my  strength. 
Now  I  looked  up  at  the  boss  in  some  hope  of  a 
sign  of  the  noon  hour.  There  was  none.  Pain- 
fully I  went  back  to  the  work.  Again  I  tried  to 


A  DAY-LABOREE  AT  WEST   POINT          45 

find  diversion  in  this  new  device.  Slowly,  with 
double  the  needed  time  for  each  event,  I  fol- 
lowed the  morning  through  another  imaginary 
series.  Now  I  was  sure  that  the  boss  had  made 
a  mistake  and  had  lost  track  of  the  time,  and 
was  working  us  far  into  the  afternoon.  The 
clouds  had  thickened,  and  the  growing  darkness 
I  was  certain  was  the  coming  night.  Great 
drops  of  rain  began  to  fall,  but  the  men  paid 
them  no  heed.  Soon  the  drops  quickened  to  a 
shower,  and  still  the  men  worked  on.  The  mois- 
ture from  within  and  without  had  made  us  wring- 
ing wet  when  the  boss  ordered  us  to  quit.  We 
bolted  for  our  coats  and  dinner-pails,  and  then 
huddled  in  the  shelter  of  the  still-standing  walls 
of  the  ruin.  Through  one  of  the  great  door- 
ways I  caught  sight  of  the  tower  of  a  neighbor- 
ing building  with  a  clock  in  it.  It  was  twenty 
minutes  to  nine  !  In  all  that  eternity  since  we 
began  to  load  the  first  cart,  we  had  been  work- 
ing one  hour  and  forty  minutes,  and  had  each 
earned  about  twenty-nine  cents. 

The  rain  cost  us  an  hour  of  working-time,  and 
then  we  went  back,  and  found  some  relief  from 
the  earlier  discomfort  in  the  saturation  which 
had  thoroughly  settled  the  dust. 

In  another  hour,  with  no  freshening  of  the 
air,  the  clouds  faded  out  of  the  sky.  The  sun 


4:6  THE  WORKERS 

shone  full  upon  us,  and  there  arose  from  the 
heaps  of  ruin  a  mist  heavy  with  the  smell  of 
damp  plaster.  But  I  had  my  "  second  wind  "  at 
last,  and  I  worked  now  with  the  feeling  of  some 
reserve  of  physical  strength.  It  was  with  sur- 
prise that  I  heard  the  loud  voice  of  the  head 
boss  in  a  shout  of  "  Time's  up  ! "  and  almost  be- 
fore I  knew  what  had  happened  the  men  were 
seated  on  the  ground,  in  the  shadows  of  the 
walls,  eating  their  dinners. 

I  opened  mine  with  much  curiosity.  There 
were  two  huge  sandwiches,  with  slices  of  corned 
beef  between  the  bread,  and  a  bit  of  cheese  and 
a  piece  of  apple-pie,  very  damp  and  oozing. 
Among  the  other  men,  with  my  aching  back 
pressed  against  the  wall,  I  sat  and  ate  my  din- 
ner, lingering  over  the  last  crumbs  like  a  child 
with  some  rare  dainty. 

At  the  end  of  the  forty-five  minutes  allowed  to 
us  at  noon,  there  came  again,  from  the  head  boss, 
the  order  to  "  Turn  out."  In  a  moment  the 
scene  of  the  morning  was  renewed.  There  was 
the  same  alternation  between  loading  the  carts 
and  assorting  the  debris. 

We  had  been  but  a  few  minutes  at  work  when 
the  cadets  went  marching  past,  on  their  way  to 
mess.  Familiar  as  most  of  the  men  were  with 
the  sight,  they  seized  eagerly  upon  the  diversion 


A  DAY-LABOEER   AT   WEST   POINT          47 

that  it  offered.  The  boss  relaxed  his  vigilance. 
The  work  visibly  slackened,  as  we  lent  our- 
selves to  the  fascination  of  individual  motion 
merged  into  perfect  harmony  of  collective  move- 
ment. Conspicuous  in  the  rear  was  the  awk- 
ward squad,  very  hot  in  its  effort  to  walk  erect, 
and  keep  its  shoulders  back  and  its  little  fingers 
on  the  seams  of  its  trousers.  The  men  laughed 
merrily  at  the  comical  contrast  between  such 
grotesquely  strenuous  efforts  at  conformity  and 
the  ease  and  strength  and  grace  of  the  unison 
which  preceded  it. 

No  rain  came  to  give  us  breathing-space  in 
the  afternoon.  Hour  by  hour  the  relentless 
work  went  on.  The  sun  had  soon  absorbed  the 
last  drop  of  the  morning  rain,  and  now  the  ruins 
lay  burning  hot  under  our  feet.  The  air  quiv- 
ered in  the  heat  reflected  from  the  stone  and 
plaster  about  us ;  the  fine  lime-dust  choked  our 
breathing  as  we  shovelled  the  refuse  into  the 
carts.  You  could  hear  the  muttered  oaths  of  the 
men,  as  they  swore  softly  in  many  tongues  at  the 
boss,  and  cursed  him  for  a  brute.  But  cease- 
lessly the  work  went  on.  "We  worked  as  though 
possessed  by  a  curious  numbness  that  kept  us 
half-unconscious  of  the  straining  effort,  which 
had  become  mechanical,  until  we  were  brought 
to  by  some  spasm  of  strained  muscles. 


48  THE   WORKERS 

But  five  o'clock  came  at  last,  and  with  it,  on 
the  second,  the  loud  "  Time's  up !  "  of  the  head 
boss.  You  could  see  men  fairly  check  a  tool  in 
its  downward  stroke,  in  their  eagerness  not  to 
exceed  the  time  by  an  instant.  In  two  minutes 
the  tools  were  housed  and  the  works  deserted, 
and  the  men  were  running  like  school-boys,  with 
a  clatter  of  dinner-pails,  in  a  competitive  scram- 
ble for  seats  in  the  dump-carts,  which  were 
moving  toward  Highland  Falls. 

The  hindmost  were  left  to  walk  the  mile  to 
their  lodgings.  I  fell  in  with  two  old  Irishmen, 
who  noticed  me  with  a  friendly  look,  and  then 
went  on  with  their  conversation,  paying  me  no 
further  heed.  But  I  felt  strangely  at  home  with 
these  old  men.  Their  short,  faltering  steps  ex- 
actly suited  my  own,  and  I  comfortably  bent  my 
back  to  the  angle  of  their  stoop,  not  in  an  effort 
to  simulate  their  figures,  but  because  to  stand 
erect  cost  me  exquisite  agony. 

The  men  in  the  carts  were  soon  out  of  our 
sight,  but  the  remnant  was  large  and  was  thor- 
oughly representative.  We  formed  a  weird  pro- 
cession, this  fragment  of  a  company  in  the  ranks 
of  labor.  There  were  few  native-born  Ameri- 
cans, one  or  two  perhaps,  besides  myself;  but 
there  were  Irish  and  Scandinavians  and  Hun- 
garians and  Italians  and  negroes. 


A  DAY-LABORER  AT   WEST   POINT          49 

As  a  physical  exertion,  walking  was  not  hard 
after  our  day's  labor.  It  was  a  change  and  a 
rest,  and  we  must  all  have  felt  the  soothing  re- 
freshment in  the  breath  of  cool  air  which  was 
moving  down  the  river,  and  in  the  soft  light  of 
the  early  evening,  which  brought  out  in  new 
loveliness  the  curves  of  the  opposite  hills  and 
deepened  the  shades  of  blue  and  green.  My  own 
appreciation  of  all  this  and  more  would  have 
been  livelier  but  for  two  overpowering  appe- 
tites, which  were  asserting  themselves  with  un- 
suspected strength.  I  was  hungry,  not  with  the 
hunger  which  comes  from  a  day's  shooting,  and 
which  whets  your  appetite  to  the  point  of  nice 
discriminations  in  an  epicure's  dinner,  but  with 
a  ravenous  hunger  which  fits  you  to  fight  like  a 
beast  for  your  food,  and  to  eat  it  raw  in  brutal 
haste  for  gratification.  But  more  than  hungry, 
I  was  thirsty.  Cold  water  had  been  in  abundant 
supply  at  the  works,  and  we  drank  as  often  and 
as  freely  as  we  chose.  But  water  had  long  since 
ceased  to  satisfy.  My  mouth  and  throat  were 
burning  with  the  action  of  the  lime-dust,  and  the 
physical  craving  for  something  to  quench  that 
strange  thirst  was  an  almost  overmastering  pas- 
sion. I  knew  of  no  drink  quite  strong  enough. 
I  have  never  tasted  gin,  but  I  remembered  in  one 
of  Froude's  essays  a  reference  to  it  as  much  in 


50  THE   WOEKERS 

use  among  working-men,  and  as  being  seasoned 
to  their  taste  by  a  dash  of  vitriol,  and  eagerly  I 
longed  for  that. 

Half-way  down  the  road  we  met  some  young 
women  in  smart  dog-carts  driving  to  the  sunset 
parade  at  the  post.  In  the  delicate  fabric  and 
color  of  summer  dress  they  seemed  to  us  the 
embodiment  of  the  cool  of  the  evening.  Sud- 
denly I  looked  with  a  keener  interest.  With  her 
fingers  outstretched  she  was  shading  her  eyes 
from  the  horizontal  rays  of  the  setting  sun,  and 
she  did  not  see  us,  rather  saw  through  us,  as 
through  something  transparent,  the  familiar  ob- 
jects on  the  roadside.  I  had  seen  her  last  in 
town  at  a  wedding  at  St.  Thomas's,  and  fate  un- 
kindly sent  her  up  the  aisle  on  the  arm  of  another 
usher.  I  laughed  aloud,  a  short,  harsh  laugh,  that 
escaped  me  before  I  was  aware,  and  that  had 
in  it  so  odd  a  quality  that  it  gave  me  an  uncom- 
fortable feeling  of  unacquaintance  with  myself. 
The  two  old  Irishmen  turned  inquiring  glances  at 
me,  and  appeared  disturbed  at  my  serious  look. 

My  room,  when  I  reached  it,  was,  in  spite  of 
wide-opened  windows,  like  Nero's  bath  at  Baise. 
The  ceiling  and  walls  glowed  with  stored-up 
heat.  Jim  was  there  making  ready  for  supper, 
and  I  could  hear  Jerry  and  Pete  in  their  room 
in  similar  preparation. 


A   DAY-LABORER  AT   WEST   POINT          51 

When  I  put  my  hands  into  the  cold  water,  I 
could  scarcely  feel  them  ;  but  the  pain  of  cleans- 
ing grew  sharp,  and  yet,  when  I  had  thorough- 
ly washed  them,  although  the  fingers  felt  double 
their  normal  size,  they  were  really  less  swollen, 
and  were  far  on  the  way  to  comfort. 

The  reaction  had  set  in  now,  and  I  could  feel 
it  in  great,  cooling  waves  of  physical  well-being. 
The  table  was  heaped  with  supper,  huge  slices 
of  juicy  sirloin,  and  dishes  of  boiled  potatoes 
and  cabbage  and  beans,  from  which  the  steam 
rose  in  fragrant  clouds.  By  each  plate  was  a 
large  cup  of  tea,  so  strong  and  hot  that  it  bit 
like  lye,  and  it  soon  washed  away  the  burning 
lime-dust. 

We  sat  down  with  our  coats  and  waistcoats 
off.  The  men  were  in  the  best  of  good-humor, 
and  the  conversation  ran  into  friendly  talk. 
They  asked  me  how  I  liked  my  job.  I  thought 
much  better  of  it  by  this  time,  and  I  tried  to 
wear  the  air  of  critical  content.  They  may  have 
had  their  own  notions  about  my  previous  expe- 
rience of  manual  labor,  but  certainly  they  did 
not  obtrude  these  with  any  show  of  suspicion. 
They  accepted  me  as  a  working-man  on  perfect- 
ly natural  terms.  Until  Wilson  came  I  was  the 
only  unskilled  laborer  among  them,  but  my  dif- 
ferent grade  was  no  barrier  to  our  intercourse, 


52  THE   WOEKEES 

and  we  met  and  talked  with  the  freedom  of  men 
whose  experience  is  innocent  of  conventional  re- 
straints. 

Long  after  supper  we  sat  on  the  porch,  smok- 
ing in  the  twilight.  A  deep  physical  comfort- 
ableness possessed  us.  Each  mouthful  of  meat 
and  drink  had  wrought  miraculous  healing,  and 
had  restored  wasted  energy  in  measures  that 
could  be  felt.  My  muscles  were  sore,  but  the 
very  pain  turned  to  pleasure  in  the  ease  of  re- 
laxation. 

The  men  were  town  artisans,  skilled  laborers, 
attracted  here  by  the  abundance  of  work.  Jerry 
was  a  plasterer,  and  Pete  a  bricklayer,  and  Jim 
a  stone  -  mason.  A  short,  slender  figure,  a 
smooth-shaven  face  with  small,  sharp,  regular 
features,  black  hair,  and  gray  eyes,  is  a  sufficient 
outline  of  Jerry's  personality.  His  air  was  that 
of  a  cynic,  and  there  was  a  cynical  flavor  in  his 
speech,  but  the  sting  of  it  was  gone  at  the  sight 
of  his  soft  gray  eyes,  full  of  generous  reserve  of 
human  kindness. 

Pete  was  a  well-set-up  young  fellow,  of  twen- 
ty-five, perhaps,  plainly  of  German  parentage. 
Like  Jerry,  he  was  smooth-shaven,  and  there 
was  a  striking  contrast  between  his  dark  hair 
and  his  singularly  fair  skin  and  blue  eyes.  He 
was  a  bricklayer,  and  ambitious  of  promotion. 


A  DAY-LABORER  AT   WEST   POINT          53 

He  spoke  hopefully  of  an  appointment  in  the 
Navy  Yard  as  a  result  of  a  recent  examination. 

Jim  was  the  only  married  man  among  us. 
His  wife  and  three  children  were  in  Brooklyn, 
and  Jim  went  home  every  Saturday  night,  and 
spent  Sunday  with  them.  He  was  a  handsome 
young  Scotsman,  with  curling  brown  hair,  and 
brown  eyes,  and  a  well-formed  mustache,  and  a 
round  face  with  full  features.  In  the  casual 
flow  of  our  talk,  Jim  spoke  of  Burns,  and  quoted 
him  with  a  ready  familiarity.  It  was  easy  to 
catch  the  drift  of  his  liking.  Its  set  was  stead- 
ily toward  passages  which  sing  the  wrongs  and 
oppression  of  the  poor.  Jim  had  none  of  the 
tricks  of  a  declaimer ;  but  with  jerks  of  unstud- 
ied emphasis  he  repeated  familiar  lines  until 
you  were  conscious  of  new  meaning  and  strength. 
He  was  sitting  with  his  chair  tilted  against  the 
wall,  and  his  heels  resting  on  a  round,  and  his 
hands  clasped  about  his  knees.  His  eyes  were 
fixed  upon  the  evening  gloom  as  he  recited  : 

Man's  inhumanity  to  man 

Makes  countless  thousands  mourn. 

The  verses  seemed  exactly  to  fit  his  mood,  for 
he  repeated  them  again  and  again,  with  linger- 
ing liking  for  their  sense  and  alliteration. 

Jerry  broke  in   abruptly  here  with  sudden, 


54  THE  WOKKERS 

unmeasured  condemnation  of  the  dulness  of 
evenings  in  a  country  town  in  the  absence  of 
the  theatre,  pronounced  theatre.  The  drama 
had  fired  his  imagination  for  the  moment,  for 
he  broke  through  his  wonted  reserve  and  waxed 
fluent  as  he  expressed  his  views  : 

"  When  I  go  to  the  theatre,  I  go  to  laugh.  I 
want  to  see  pretty  girls  and  lots  of  them,  and  I 
want  to  see  them  dance.  I  want  songs  as  I  can 
understand  the  words  of,  and  lots  of  jokes,  and 
horse-play.  You  don't  get  me  to  the  theatre  to 
see  no  show  got  up  by  Shakespeare,  nor  any  of 
them  fellows  as  lived  two  thousand  years  ago. 
What  did  they  know  about  us  fellows  as  is  liv- 
ing now  ?  Pete,  you  mind  that  Tim  Healy  in 
the  union,  him  that's  full  of  wind  in  the  meet- 
ings ?  Onct  he  give  me  a  book  to  read,  and  he 
says  it's  a  theatre  piece  wrote  by  Shakespeare, 
and  the  best  there  was.  I  read  more'n  an  hour 
on  that  piece,  and  I'm  damned  if  there  was  a 
joke  into  it,  nor  any  sense  neither." 

We  were  presently  yawning  under  the  stars, 
and  I  was  more  than  glad  when  the  men  spoke 
of  bed.  Almost  in  the  next  moment,  to  my  con- 
sciousness, Mrs.  Flaherty  was  knocking  on  the 
door,  bidding  us  wake  and  not  to  go  to  sleep 
again,  for  it  was  six  o'clock. 

Of  the  five,  this  second  day  was  the  hardest. 


A  DAY-LABOEEE   AT  WEST   POINT          55 

My  body  was  sore  in  every  part  when  I  began 
to  work,  and  the  help  of  hardening  muscles  I 
did  not  gain  until  the  third  day.  Mrs.  Flaherty 
had  skilfully  bound  up  the  slight  wounds  on  my 
fingers.  The  merciful  rain  came  twice  to  our 
relief,  once  in  the  morning  and  again  in  the  af- 
ternoon. But  this  was  not  an  unmixed  bless- 
ing, for  in  the  minutes  of  delay  we  could  but 
calculate  the  growing  loss  in  wages,  and  watch 
the  sure  vanishing  of  any  surplus  above  actual 
living  expenses.  I  remember  making  an  esti- 
mate on  my  way  to  my  lodgings  that  evening, 
and  it  was  with  much  sinking  of  heart  that  I 
discovered  that  my  earnings  made  a  total  rather 
less  than  the  cost  of  the  day's  living. 

There  has  been  difficulty  in  the  way  of  inter- 
course with  the  men.  I  speak  no  Italian,  nor 
any  of  the  Scandinavian  tongues,  so  that  my  ac- 
quaintance has  been  confined  to  my  own  coun- 
trymen, who  are  few  in  number  in  the  gang,  and 
to  the  Irishmen  and  negroes,  and  an  occasional 
Hungarian  who  understands  my  stammering 
German.  And  within  the  English-speaking  cir- 
cle, in  the  absence  of  this,  there  have  been  other 
barriers.  There  is  wanting  that  social  freedom 
that  is  most  natural  in  Mrs.  Flaherty's  home. 
There  is  much  of  it  among  the  foreigners. 
They  hang  together  at  their  work,  and  sit  in 


56  THE  WORKERS 

separate  groups  through  the  noon  hour,  and  one 
commonly  hears,  especially  among  the  Italians, 
that  picturesque  volubility  which  sets  you  won- 
dering as  to  the  subject  of  such  fluent  debate. 
Among  the  English-speaking  men,  the  Irish  and 
negroes  are  as  Jews  and  Samaritans ;  but  aside 
from  this,  the  general  attitude  is  one  of  sullen 
suspiciousness.  Few  appear  to  know  the  others, 
and  not  even  their  wretchedness  draws  them 
to  the  relief  of  companionship.  Sometimes  we 
hear  warm  greetings  among  acquaintances,  or 
see  some  show  of  friendliness,  but  this  is  mark- 
edly out  of  keeping  with  the  general  tone  of 
things.  The  usual  intercourse  is  an  exchange 
of  experiences,  an  account  of  the  circumstances 
which  brought  them  to  their  present  lot,  among 
men  who  happen  to  be  working  side  by  side  or 
sitting  in  company  at  the  noon  hour.  Quite  as 
commonly  one  hears  only  muttered  curses 
against  the  boss. 

You  would  gather  from  their  own  accounts 
that  many  of  the  men  are  unused  to  unskilled 
labor.  There  is  a  singular  uniformity  in  their 
histories.  Nearly  all  have  seen  better  days,  and 
are  now  but  tiding  over  a  dull  season  in  their 
trades,  or  are  earning  enough  to  take  them  to 
some  other  part  of  the  country,  where  there  is  a 
quickening  in  the  demand  for  their  labor. 


A  DAY-LABORER  AT  WEST  POINT          67 

I  found  myself  growing  doubtful  of  these  un- 
varying tales.  The  mechanism  became  too  ap- 
parent. "  I  am  really  an  efficient  and  energetic 
workman,"  each  seemed  to  say ;  "  you  see  me 
now  in  a  strait  of  circumstances.  You  should 
see  me  at  my  trade,  in  which  I  am  an  adept.  I 
am  out  of  that  employment  now  because  of  de- 
pression in  the  business,  but  when  business  re- 
vives, or  when  I  can  reach  Chicago  or  St.  Louis 
or  Minneapolis,  my  labor  will  be  in  strong  de- 
mand." Irresistibly  one  is  led  to  the  belief 
that  most  of  these  men  probably  have  no  trade, 
or,  at  the  best,  are  inefficient  workmen,  who,  un- 
able to  keep  a  job  long,  habitually  pick  up  a  liv- 
ing at  work  like  this,  in  the  careless  makeshift 
of  a  shiftless  life. 

It  is  refreshing  to  meet  others  who  are  frankly 
laborers.  All  their  lives  they  have  been  bred  to 
unskilled  labor,  and  they  make  no  pretence  of 
anything  different.  They  are  hard  men  who 
look  out  upon  a  world  that  is  hard  to  them  at 
every  point  of  contact ;  but  they  are  true  men, 
by  virtue  of  their  honesty  and  directness,  and 
one  likes  them  accordingly.  Some  of  them  are 
old,  and  it  is  pitiful  to  see  them  tottering  under 
the  burden  of  years,  and  staying  off  actual  want 
by  forcing  their  rheumatic  limbs  through  the 
drudgery  of  this  rude  toil. 


58  THE   WORKERS 

I  had  noticed  the  absence  of  one  of  this  coterie 
for  a  day  or  two  when,  in  the  middle  of  a  morn- 
ing's work,  he  appeared  among  the  ruins.  He 
was  an  old  Irishman.  His  face  was  swollen 
from  toothache,  and  was  bound  up  in  a  cotton 
bandanna.  His  hands  were  clasped  on  his 
stooping  back,  and  he  moved  with  the  painful 
motion  that  suggests  acute  rheumatism.  For  a 
time  he  stood  watching  us  at  our  work  and  ex- 
changing words  with  some  of  the  men  about  his 
complaints,  when  suddenly  he  burst  into  tears. 
The  men  jeered  him,  and  angrily  told  him  to  be 
gone.  I  had  a  sickening  feeling  of  cruelty  as  I 
saw  him  go  sobbing  down  the  road ;  but  when  I 
spoke  of  him  at  the  noon  hour  the  men  explained 
that  it  was  a  disgrace  to  have  him  crying  there, 
but  that  they  would  see  that  his  wants  were  pro- 
vided for. 

There  was  a  revelation  in  the  discovery  of  the 
degree  to  which  profanity  is  ingrained  in  the 
vernacular  of  these  men,  as  representatives  of 
the  laboring  poor.  They  swear  with  the  readi- 
ness of  instinct,  not  merely  in  anger,  when  their 
language  mounts  to  a  torrent  of  abuse  unspeak- 
ably awful  in  its  horrid  blasphemies,  but  in 
commonest  intercourse,  when  their  oaths  are  as 
meaningless  as  casual  interjections.  And  almost 
never  is  the  rude  hardness  of  their  speech  soft- 


A  DAY-LABORER  AT   WEST   POINT          59 

ened  by  the  amenities  which  seem  so  natural  a 
part  of  language.  The  imperative,  more  than 
any  other  mood,  is  rudely  thrust  into  common 
use.  They  are  even  punctilious  in  its  employ- 
ment. 

A  single  instance  will  serve  to  point  the  nat- 
ure of  this  graceless  speech.  Two  boys  of  ten 
or  twelve  are  employed  in  carrying  water  to  the 
men  at  their  work.  One  carries  his  bucket 
through  the  building  to  those  engaged  in  the 
upper  stories ;  and  the  other,  a  flaxen-haired, 
delicate  child  whose  thin  legs  bend  under  his 
burden,  serves  those  of  us  who  are  at  work  on 
the  heaps  below.  Through  all  the  day,  and  es- 
pecially in  its  greatest  heat,  the  boys  run  busily 
from  the  works  to  a  neighboring  pump,  and  re- 
turn with  bucketfuls  of  water,  which  are  at  once 
surrounded  by  thirsty  workmen  and  emptied  in 
a  few  minutes.  Regardless  of  the  prevailing 
custom,  I  always  thanked  the  little  fellow  for 
my  drink.  Soon  I  noticed  that  even  this  instinc- 
tive acknowledgment  seemed  to  embarrass  him. 
In  an  interval  of  rest  he  came  up  to  me,  after 
receiving  my  thanks.  "You  shouldn't  thank 
me,"  he  said.  "And  why  not?"  I  begged  to 
know.  "  Because,  you  see,  I'm  paid  to  do  this," 
was  his  conscientious  answer.  A  mere  child, 
naturally  gentle,  and  yet  so  bred  to  rougher 


60  THE  WORKERS 

usage  that  a  simple  "  Thank  you  "  jarred  upon 
his  sense  of  right !  A  few  minutes  later  I  saw 
the  two  boys  in  a  rough-and-ready  fight,  and 
their  language  lacked  none  of  the  horror  of 
that  of  their  elders. 

I  shall  be  on  the  road  again  to-morrow  morn- 
ing, and  I  shall  go  as  penniless  as  I  came,  but 
somewhat  richer  in  experience.  I  have  been 
through  nearly  a  week  of  labor,  and  have  sur- 
vived it,  and  have  honestly  earned  my  living  as 
a  working-man.  In  the  future  I  shall  have  the 
added  confidence  which  comes  of  knowing  that, 
if  work  offers,  I  shall  probably  be  able  to  per- 
form it.  But  this  is  not  the  only  cause  of  my 
increased  light-heartedness.  I  am  frankly  glad 
to  get  away  from  the  job  on  the  old  Academic 
building.  This  is  a  selfish  feeling,  and  is  not 
without  the  cowardice  of  all  selfishness.  I  hope 
for  a  job  of  another  kind,  for  a  time  at  least,  be- 
cause I  wish  to  see  some  hopefuller  side  of  the 
lot  of  common  labor.  When  we  draw  too  near 
to  the  hand  of  Fate,  and  begin  to  feel  as  though 
there  were  a  wrong  in  the  nature  of  things,  it  is 
best,  perhaps,  to  change  our  point  of  view — if 
we  can.  This  may  account  for  some  of  the  drift- 
ing restlessness  among  working-men  of  my 
class. 

The  salient  features  of  our  condition  are  plain 


A   DAY-LABORER  AT  WEST  POINT          61 

enough.  "We  are  unskilled  laborers.  We  are 
grown  _men,  and  are  without  a  trade.  In  the 
labor  market  we  stand  ready  to  sell  to  the  high- 
est bidder  our  mere  muscular  strength  for  so 
many  hours  each  day.  "We  are  thus  in  the  low- 
est grade  of  labor.  We  are  here,  and  not  higher 
in  the  scale,  by  reason  of  a  variety  of  causes. 
Some  of  us  were  thrown  upon  our  own  resources 
in  childhood,  and  have  earned  our  living  ever 
since,  and  by  the  line  of  least  resistance  we  have 
simply  grown  to  be  unskilled  workmen.  Oppor- 
tunities came  to  some  of  us  of  learning  useful 
trades,  and  we  neglected  them,  and  now  we  have 
no  developed  skill  to  aid  us  in  earning  a  living, 
and  we  must  take  the  work  that  offers. 

Some  of  us  were  bred  to  farm  labor,  and  almost 
from  our  earliest  recollection  we  worked  in  the 
fields,  until,  tiring  of  country  life,  we  determined 
to  try  some  other ;  and  we  have  turned  to  this 
work  as  being  within  our  powers,  and  as  afford- 
ing us  a  change.  Still  others  among  us,  like 
Wilson,  really  learned  a  trade ;  but  the  market 
offers  no  further  demand  for  the  peculiar  skill 
we  possess,  and  so  we  are  forced  back  upon  skil- 
less  labor.  And  selling  our  muscular  strength 
in  the  open  market  for  what  it  will  bring,  we  sell 
it  under  peculiar  conditions.  It  is  all  the  capi- 
tal that  we  have.  We  have  no  reserve  means  of 


62  THE  WORKERS 

subsistence,  and  cannot,  therefore,  stand  off  for 
a  "reserve  price."  We  sell  under  the  necessity 
of  satisfying  imminent  hunger.  Broadly  speak- 
ing, we  must  sell  our  labor  or  starve ;  and  as 
hunger  is  a  matter  of  a  few  hours,  and  we  have 
no  other  way  of  meeting  this  need,  we  must  sell 
at  once  for  what  the  market  offers  for  our  labor. 
And  for  some  of  us  there  is  other  pressure,  un- 
speakable, immeasurable  pressure,  in  the  needs 
of  wife  and  children. 

The  contractor  buys  our  labor  as  he  buys 
other  commodities,  like  brick  and  iron  and  stone, 
which  enter  into  the  construction  of  the  new 
building.  But  he  buys  of  us  under  certain  re- 
strictions to  us  both.  The  law  of  supply  and 
demand  does  not  apply  to  our  labor  with  the 
same  freedom  as  to  other  merchandize.  We  are 
human  beings,  and  some  of  us  have  social  ties, 
which  bricks  and  iron  have  not,  and  we  do  not, 
therefore,  move  to  favorable  markets  with  the 
same  ease  and  certainty  as  these.  Besides,  we 
are  ignorant  men,  and  behind  what  we  have  to 
sell  is  no  trained  intelligence,  nor  a  knowledge  of 
prices  and  of  the  best  means  of  reaching  the 
best  markets.  And  then  we  are  poor  men,  who 
must  sell  when  we  find  a  purchaser,  for  no  "  re- 
serve price"  is  possible  to  us. 

The  law  of  supply  and  demand  meets  with 


A   DAY-LABORER  AT  WEST  POINT          63 

these  restrictions  and  others.  If  it  applied  with 
perfect  freedom  to  our  commodity,  we  should 
infallibly  be  where  is  the  greatest  demand  for 
our  labor ;  and  with  perfect  acquaintance  with 
the  markets  we  should  always  sell  in  the  dear- 
est. But  the  benefits  of  perfect  freedom  of  sup- 
ply and  demand  would  not  be  ours  alone.  If 
we  sold  in  the  dearest  markets,  the  employer 
would  as  certainly  buy  in  the  cheapest.  He  has 
capital  in  the  form  of  the  means  of  subsist- 
ence, and  can  stand  off  for  a  "  reserve  price," 
and  could  force  us  to  sell  at  last  in  the  pinch 
of  hunger,  and  in  competition  with  starving 
men. 

As  matters  are,  our  wages  might  rise,  in  an  in- 
creased demand  for  labor,  far  above  their  pres- 
ent point ;  but  even  under  pressure  of  decreas- 
ing demand,  and  with  scores  of  needy  men  eager 
to  take  our  places,  our  wages,  if  we  had  employ- 
ment at  all,  would  not  fall  far  below  their  present 
level.  So  much  has  civilization  done  for  us.  It 
does  not  insure  to  us  a  chance  to  earn  a  living, 
but  it  does  measurably  insure  to  us  that  what 
we  earn  by  day's  labor,  such  as  this,  will  at 
least  be  a  living. 

As  unskilled  laborers  we  are  unorganized 
men.  We  are  members  of  no  union.  "We  must 
deal  individually  with  our  employer,  under  all 


64  THE  WORKERS 

the  disadvantages  which  encumber  our  position 
in  the  market  as  compared  with  his. 

But  his  position  is  not  an  enviable  one.  He 
is  a  competitor  in  a  freer  market  than  ours.  He 
has  secured  his  contract  as  the  lowest  bidder, 
under  a  keener  competition  than  we  know,  and 
in  every  dime  that  he  must  add  to  wages  in  or- 
der to  attract  labor,  and  in  every  dollar  paid  to 
an  inefficient  workman,  and  in  every  unforeseen 
difficulty  or  delay  in  the  work,  he  sees  a  scaling 
from  the  margin  of  profit,  which  is  already,  per- 
haps, the  narrowest  that  will  attract  capital  into 
the  field  of  production.  The  results  of  our  labor 
are  worth  nothing  to  him  as  finished  product 
until  given  sections  of  the  work  are  completed. 
In  the  meantime  he  must  advance  to  us  our 
wages  out  of  capital  which  is  a  product  of  past 
labor,  his  own  and  ours  as  working-men,  and  of 
other  capital.  And  this  he  must  continue  to  do, 
even  if  his  margin  of  profit  should  wholly  dis- 
appear, and  even  if  ultimate  loss  should  be  the 
net  result  of  the  expenditure  of  his  labor  and 
capital.  In  every  case,  before  any  other  com- 
modity has  been  paid  for,  we  have  insured  to  us 
the  price  for  which  we  have  sold  our  labor. 

Our  employer  is  buying  labor  in  a  dear  market. 
One  dollar  and  sixty  cents  for  a  day  of  nine 
hours  and  a  quarter  is  a  high  rate  for  unskilled 


A  DAY-LABORER   AT   WEST  POINT          65 

workmen.  And  the  demand  continues,  for  I 
notice  that  the  boss  accepts  every  man  who  ap- 
plies for  a  job.  The  contractor  is  paying  high 
for  labor,  and  he  will  certainly  get  from  us  as 
much  work  as  he  can  at  the  price.  The  gang- 
boss  is  secured  for  this  purpose,  and  thoroughly 
does  he  know  his  business.  He  has  sole  com- 
mand of  us.  He  never  saw  us  before,  and  he 
will  discharge  us  all  when  the  debris  is  cleared 
away  and  the  site  made  ready  for  the  construct- 
ive labors  of  the  skilled  workmen.  In  the  mean- 
time he  must  get  from  us,  if  he  can,  the  utmost 
of  physical  labor  which  we,  individually  and  col- 
lectively, are  capable  of.  If  he  should  drive 
some  of  us  to  exhaustion,  and  we  should  not  be 
able  to  continue  at  work,  he  would  not  be  the 
loser,  for  the  market  would  soon  supply  him 
with  others  to  take  our  places. 

We  are  ignorant  men,  and  we  have  a  slender 
hold  of  economic  principles,  but  so  much  we 
clearly  see :  that  we  have  sold  our  labor  where 
we  could  sell  it  dearest,  and  our  employer  has 
bought  it  where  he  could  buy  it  cheapest.  He 
has  paid  high  for  it,  but  not  from  philanthropic 
motives,  and  he  will  get  at  the  price,  he  must 
get,  all  the  labor  that  he  can ;  and,  by  a  strong 
instinct  which  possesses  us,  we  shall  part  with 
as  little  as  we  can.  And  there  you  have,  in  its 
5 


66  THE  WORKERS 

rudimentary  form,  the  bear  and  the  bull  sides  of 
the  market. 

You  tell  us  that  our  interests  are  identical 
with  those  of  our  employer.  That  may  be  true 
on  some  ground  unknown  to  us,  but  we  live 
from  hand  to  mouth,  and  we  think  from  day  to 
day,  and  we  have  no  power  to  "  reach  a  hand 
through  time,  to  catch  the  far-off  interest  of 
tears."  From  work  like  ours  there  seems  to  us 
to  have  been  eliminated  every  element  which 
constitutes  the  nobility  of  labor.  We  feel  no 
personal  pride  in  its  progress,  and  no  commun- 
ity of  interest  with  our  employer.  He  plainly 
shares  this  lack  of  unity  of  interest ;  for  he  takes 
for  granted  that  we  are  dishonest  men,  and  that 
we  will  cheat  him  if  we  can ;  and  so  he  watches 
us  through  every  moment,  and  forces  us  to  real- 
ize that  not  for  an  hour  would  he  intrust  his  in- 
terests to  our  hands.  There  is  for  us  in  our 
work  none  of  the  joy  of  responsibility,  none  of 
the  sense  of  achievement,  only  the  dull  monot- 
ony of  grinding  toil,  with  the  longing  for  the 
signal  to  quit  work,  and  for  our  wages  at  the  end 
of  the  week. 

We  expect  the  ready  retort  that  we  get  what 
we  deserve,  that  no  field  of  labor  was  closed  to 
us,  and  that  we  are  where  we  are  because  we  are 
fit,  or  have  fitted  ourselves,  for  nothing  better. 


A   DAY-LABORER   AT  WEST   POINT          67 

Unskilled  labor  must  be  done,  and,  in  the  nat 
ural  play  of  productive  activity,  it  must  inevit- 
ably be  done  by  those  who  are  excluded  from 
the  higher  forms  of  labor  by  incapacity,  or  in- 
efficiency, or  misfortune,  or  lack  of  ambition. 
And  being  what  we  are,  the  dregs  of  the  labor 
market,  and  having  no  certainty  of  permanent 
employment,  and  no  organization  among  our- 
selves, by  means  of  which  we  can  deal  with  our 
employer  and  he  with  us  by  some  other  than  an 
individual  hold  upon  each  other,  we  must  ex- 
pect to  work  under  the  watchful  eye  of  a  gang- 
boss,  and  not  only  be  directed  in  our  labor,  but 
be  driven,  like  the  wage-slaves  that  we  are, 
through  our  tasks. 

All  this  is  to  tell  us,  in  effect,  that  our  lives 
are  the  hard,  barren,  hopeless  lives  that  they  are 
because  of  our  own  fault,  and  that  our  degrada- 
tion as  men  is  the  measure  of  our  bondage  as 
workmen. 

This  seems  to  state  an  ultimate  fact,  and  then, 
with  the  habit  of  much  of  such  thinking,  to 
settle  itself  peacefully,  with  an  easy  conscience, 
behind  the  inevitable. 

But  for  us  there  is  no  such  peace  or  comfort 
in  the  inevitable.  And  yet,  even  in  this  state- 
ment of  our  case,  we  are  not  without  hope.  We 
are  men,  and  are  capable  of  becoming  better 


68  THE  WORKERS 

men.  We  may  be  capable  of  no  other  than  un- 
skilled labor,  but  why  should  we  be  doomed  to 
perform  it  under  the  conditions  which  now  de- 
grade us  at  our  work  ? 

Imagine  each  of  us  an  ideal  workman.  Through 
all  the  hours  of  the  working-day  we  labor  con- 
scientiously, with  no  need  of  oversight  beyond 
intelligent  direction;  for  each  of  us  feels  the 
keenest  interest  in  the  progress  of  the  work,  be- 
cause we  are  honest  men,  and,  with  far-sighted 
knowledge,  we  know  that  by  our  best  labor  in 
any  form  of  useful  production  we  are  contribut- 
ing our  best  to  the  general  prosperity,  as  well  as 
our  own,  and  that  it  is  by  our  energy  and  per- 
sonal efficiency  that  we  may  open  for  ourselves 
a  way  to  promotion.  Here  clearly  is  a  solution 
on  ideal  grounds.  Is  there  no  remedy  that  can 
reach  us  as  we  are  ? 

Our  ambition  must  be  fired,  our  sense  of  re- 
sponsibility awakened  and  enlisted  in  our  labor, 
our  intelligences  quickened  to  the  vision  of  our 
own  interests  in  the  best  performance  of  our 
duty.  Life  will  not  be  rendered  frictionless 
thereby.  Work  will  still  be  hard,  but  to  it  will 
be  restored  its  dignity,  its  "power  to  call  into 
play  the  better  part  of  a  man,  and  so  build  up 
his  character. 

We  have  already  seen  how  such  an   end  is 


A   DAY-LABOEER  AT  WEST  POINT          69 

realized  in  the  initial  betterment  of  character 
itself.  Let  us  see  whether  something  might  not 
be  done  by  an  initial  improvement  in  the  con- 
ditions of  employment. 

Let  us  suppose  now  that  we  are  not  ideal 
characters,  but  ordinary  men,  whose  lot  in  life  is 
to  perform  unskilled  labor ;  but  let  us  suppose 
that  we  are  an  organized  body  of  workmen.  The 
contractor  made  terms  with  us  as  an  organized 
gang  for  the  removal  of  the  old  building.  Our 
organization,  from  long  experience  of  such  work, 
was  able  to  enter  into  an  eminently  fair  agree- 
ment. The  contract  rests  upon  a  basis  of  time. 
For  the  completed  work  we  are  to  receive  a  fixed 
sum,  provided  that  it  is  finished  by  a  given  date. 
If  we  finish  the  work,  according  to  the  terms  of 
the  contract,  one  week  earlier,  we  are  to  receive 
a  bonus  in  addition  to  the  fixed  amount ;  if  two 
weeks  earlier,  there  will  be  an  increase  in  the 
bonus.  In  the  meantime  advances  are  to  be 
made  to  us,  week  by  week,  in  the  form  of  days' 
wages,  but  so  regulated  as  to  protect  the  con- 
tractor against  loss  if  the  gang  should  fail  to 
complete  the  work. 

Every  member  of  the  gang  is  perfectly  familiar 
with  the  terms  of  the  contract,  and  knows  thor- 
oughly the  advantages  of  an  early  completion  of 
the  job.  We  agree  among  ourselves  upon  the 


70  THE   WORKERS 

number  of  hours  which  shall  constitute  a  day's 
work,  and  from  our  own  number  we  elect  a  boss, 
who  will  give  direction  to  our  labor,  and  under 
whose  orders  we  bind  ourselves  to  serve.  It  is 
no  part  of  his  duty  now  to  stand  guard  over  us 
in  the  office  of  a  slave-driver  to  prevent  our 
shirking,  for  we  effectually  perform  that  service 
for  ourselves,  seeing  to  it,  with  utmost  regard  for 
our  interests,  that  no  man  among  us  fails  to  do 
his  share  in  the  common  task.  The  boss  is  now 
the  best  and  most  intelligent  worker  among  us, 
and  not  only  does  he  direct  our  efforts,  but,  with 
his  own  hands,  he  sets  the  example  of  energetic 
work  for  the  securing  of  the  best  terms  that  the 
contract  offers  for  our  common  good. 

In  a  true  sense  now  we  have  got  a  job.  It  is 
ours.  The  work  is  hard,  but  we  have  an  object 
in  working  hard.  Every  stroke  of  labor  is  not 
a  listless,  time-serving  economy  of  effort,  but  an 
eager  and  willing  furthering  of  the  work  toward 
its  completion  and  our  own  advantage.  We  are 
glad  in  the  progress  of  our  job,  even  if  we  are 
glad  from  no  higher  motive  than  our  personal 
profit.  "We  have  a  sense  of  responsibility  and 
the  keen  interest  which  comes  of  that,  even  if 
they  rise  in  no  better  source  than  our  greed  for 
gain. 

It  is  true  that  the  root  of  the  matter  lies  deeper 


A   DAY-LABOHER  AT  WEST  POINT          71 

than  this.  We  may  work  under  hopefuller  con- 
ditions and  be,  intrinsically,  no  better  men.  Our 
selfishness  may  take  on  the  refinement  of  the 
altruism  that  merely  seeks  our  own  in  the  wel- 
fare of  others ;  our  ignorance  may  become  illu- 
mined by  an  enlightened  self-interest ;  our  vices 
may  assume  respectability ;  and  yet  our  old  hard- 
ness of  heart  remain  in  full  possession  of  us. 
But  the  truly  pertinent  question  is  this :  Near- 
er to  which  of  these  ways  of  living  lies  the  liv- 
ing way?  In  which  have  we  the  better  chance 
to  become  better  men?  Life  in  its  present 
course  is  to  most  of  us  a  miserable  bondage.  We 
work  daily  to  physical  exhaustion ;  and,  with  no 
power  left  for  mental  effort,  our  minds  yield 
themselves  to  the  play  of  any  chance  diversion 
until  they  lose  the  power  of  serious  attention. 
In  what  constitutes  for  us  the  work  of  life  there 
is  no  pleasure,  no  education,  no  evoking  of  our 
better  natures. 

All  truly  productive  labor  performed  under 
right  conditions  is  itself  a  blessing.  It  partakes 
of  the  highest  good  that  life  offers.  It  is  a 
bringing  of  order  out  of  chaos,  a  victory  over 
forces  which  can  be  reduced  from  evil  mastery 
to  useful  service.  It  thus  becomes  the  type  of 
that  labor  which  is  the  work  of  life,  the  mastery 
of  self  in  the  building  of  character.  In  this 


72  THE  WORKERS 

sense  it  was  that  the  monks  of  the  Middle  Ages 
framed  their  motto,  Laborare  est  Orare — labor 
is  prayer.  But  robbed  of  its  true  conditions 
and  reduced  to  the  dishonor  of  time-service  un- 
der the  eye  of  a  slave-driving  boss,  who  impels 
us  with  insults  infinitely  more  degrading  than 
the  lash,  labor  is  no  longer  prayer,  but  a  blas- 
phemy, which  finds  expression  in  the  words 
which  rise  readiest  to  our  lips. 

I  have  been  writing  from  the  position  of  an 
unskilled  workman,  with  no  apparent  allowance 
for  my  newness  to  the  life.  The  physical  stress 
and  strain,  for  example,  how  different  my  ex- 
perience of  these  as  compared  with  that  of  the 
other  men  inured  to  them  by  long  habit!  A 
year  or  two  of  such  labor,  and  how  great  the 
physical  change!  My  hands  would  be  hard, 
and  the  friction  of  this  work,  so  far  from  wound- 
ing them,  would  render  them  the  more  imper- 
vious to  harm.  My  muscles  would  be  like  iron, 
and  would  lend  themselves  with  far  greater  ease 
to  the  stress  of  manual  labor.  Ten  years  would 
find  me  a  seasoned  workman. 

But  under  conditions  of  labor  such  as  these, 
what  changes  other  than  physical  would  there 
be  ?  My  body  might  be  hardened  in  fibre  to 
the  point  of  high  efficiency  in  manual  labor,  but 
the  hardening  of  mind  and  character — is  it  likely 


A   DAY-LABOKER  AT  WEST   POINT          73 

that  this  would  be  of  the  nature  of  the  strength 
of  more  abundant  life,  or  of  the  hardness  of 
petrifaction  ? 

I  have  received  the  strangest  kindness  from 
the  men,  the  most  tactful  treatment  of  me  as  a 
novice.  They  laughed  at  my  strenuous  efforts 
to  do  what  was  so  much  easier  to  them,  and 
they  laughed  when  the  boss  singled  me  out  for 
abuse,  but  never  ill-naturedly,  I  thought.  And 
those  who  made  up  to  me,  and  with  whom  I 
picked  up  acquaintance,  showed  the  kindest  con- 
sideration. They  never  pressed  me  with  em- 
barrassing questions,  but  fell  gracefully  into  the 
easy  assumption  that  I  was  a  factory  hand  or  a 
"  tradesman  "  out  of  a  job.  It  was  natural  to 
adopt  the  general  strain  and  speak  of  plans 
which  involved  my  going  West. 

In  spite  of  their  roughness  and  hardness  of 
manner  and  speech,  one  never  felt  the  smallest 
fear  of  these  men,  and  you  had  a  growing  feel- 
ing that  their  better  natures  were  never  far  to 
seek.  And  yet  in  reality  here  they  were,  a  curs- 
ing, blaspheming  crew  ;  men  upon  whose  lives 
hopelessness  seems  to  have  settled ;  whose  idea 
of  work  is  a  slavish  drudgery  done  from  the 
instinct  of  self-preservation  and  to  be  shirked 
whenever  possible  ;  whose  idea  of  pleasure  is 
abandonment  to  their  unrnastered  passions. 


74  THE  WORKERS 

I  had  a  purpose  in  quitting  work  in  the  middle 
of  Saturday  afternoon.  I  went  to  my  lodgings 
and  asked  Mrs.  Flaherty  for  an  early  supper  of 
anything  that  she  could  give  me  without  trouble. 
Then  I  brushed  my  clothes  and  washed  myself, 
and  made  myself  as  presentable  as  my  slender 
pack  permitted.  My  beard  was  now  of  nearly 
two  weeks'  growth,  and  my  face  was  well  burned 
by  the  sun,  and  my  clothes,  in  spite  of  the  pro- 
tection of  overalls,  were  much  labor-stained. 

I  felt  some  security  in  my  disguise,  and  after 
an  early  supper  I  walked  over  to  see  the  sunset 
parade.  On  the  road  I  met  the  men  returning 
from  the  works,  and  had  to  run  a  gauntlet  of 
questions  as  to  whether  I  had  left  the  job  for 
good,  and  what  I  meant  to  do. 

There  was  bustle  in  the  camp ;  a  running  to 
and  fro  of  cadets,  who  appeared  to  be  subject  to 
many  calls  ;  a  nervous  appearing  and  vanishing 
at  the  tent-doors  of  figures  which  were  in  proc- 
ess of  achieving  parade-dress ;  a  hasty  personal 
inspection  of  arms  and  uniform ;  and  then  sud- 
denly, out  of  apparently  inextricable  confusion, 
there  emerged,  without  a  trace  of  disorder,  the 
two  companies,  in  double  lines  of  perfect  sym- 
metry, before  the  inspecting  officer. 

Then  followed  the  sunset  parade.  Seated  on 
the  benches  under  the  trees,  and  grouped  on  the 


A   DAY-LABORER  AT  WEST  POINT          75 

turf  behind,  was  an  eager  crowd  watching  in- 
tently, in  perfect  stillness,  every  evolution  of  the 
cadets.  The  fascination  was  in  the  sense  it  gave 
you  of  abounding  life,  of  youth  and  strength  and 
vigor,  brought  to  perfect  unity  in  willing  sub- 
ordination to  authority.  Here  was  the  type  of 
highest  organization,  the  voluntary  submission 
of  those  who  are  "  fit  to  follow  to  those  who  are 
fittest  to  lead."  So  much  has  civilization  achieved 
for  the  purpose  of  self-defence.  The  mission  of 
many  of  these  young  officers  will  be  to  take  such 
men  as  those  with  whom  I  have  been  working, 
and  teach  them  the  manly  lesson  of  obedience, 
and  awaken  in  them  the  feelings  of  courage  and 
loyalty  and  esprit  de  corps.  Civilization  is  yet 
a  long  way  from  such  organization  for  industrial 
ends,  if  ever  such  corporate  action  will  be  pos- 
sible or  good  ;  but  certainly  it  will  not  be  long 
before  civilization  gives  birth  in  increasing  num- 
bers to  "  captains  of  industry,"  who  will  feel 
with  their  men  other  ties  than  the  "  nexus  of 
cash  payment,"  and  who  will  attack  the  problems 
of  production  with  other  aims  than  selfish  accu- 
mulation. Under  the  direction  of  such  leaders, 
workingmen  will  be  led  to  far  greater  conquests 
over  the  resources  of  nature  than  any  in  the  past, 
and,  sharing  consciously  in  these  victories  as 
the  fruits  of  their  own  labors,  there  will  open  to 


76  THE  WORKERS 

them  a  new  life  of  liberty  and  hope  in  willing 
allegiance  to  true  control. 

The  intense  satisfaction  I  felt  in  the  rest  of 
yesterday  (Sunday)  was  heightened  by  a  feeling 
of  hopefulness  as  I  thought  of  the  future  of 
workingmen  in  a  country  like  ours.  Here  are 
almost  boundless  natural  resources,  capable  of 
supporting  many  times  our  present  population. 
Under  the  stimulus  of  private  acclamation,  what 
marvellous  genius  and  skill  and  enterprise  have 
directed  labor  to  the  development  of  our  na- 
tional wealth !  When,  with  the  growth  of  better 
knowledge,  there  is  added  to  this  stimulus 
among  the  great  leaders  of  industry  a  sincere 
desire  for  the  common  good  and  a  purpose  to 
make  the  conditions  of  employment  the  means 
of  achieving  this  good,  how  far  greater  must  be 
the  industrial  results,  and  how  far  better  the 
lives  of  the  workers ! 

I  felt  aglow  with  this  idea  as  I  walked,  in  the 
afternoon,  down  the  road  below  Highland  Falls. 
It  was  a  warm  mid-summer  day,  and  in  keeping 
with  its  restful  quiet  the  air  moved  gently  among 
the  leaves  in  the  tree-tops.  I  was  disturbed  by 
the  sound  of  music  from  the  deck  of  an  excur- 
sion steamer,  and,  seized  with  sudden  desire  for 
a  glimpse  of  the  river,  I  vaulted  a  low  stone 
wall,  and  quickly  made  my  way  over  the  mossy 


A  DAY-LABORER  AT   WEST  POINT          77 

carpeting  of  a  wood  which  covers  the  bluff  above 
the  water. 

I  did  not  see,  at  first,  the  abrupt  ending  of 
the  wood  and  the  sweep  of  an  open  lawn,  and 
when  I  caught  sight  of  that  I  was  only  a  few 
yards  from  a  rustic  bench.  There  two  persons 
sat,  with  their  backs  toward  me,  but  I  recognized 
the  girl  at  once  as  an  acquaintance,  and  I  knew 
that  I  was  a  trespassing  vagrant.  The  man  I 
knew  well,  for  he  was  a  college  classmate  and  a 
charming  fellow,  and  I  longed  to  ask  his  views 
on  the  question  of  the  improvement  of  the  lot  of 
unskilled  laborers  by  means  of  organization. 

But  I  grew  painfully  conscious  of  my  work- 
stained  clothes,  and  my  faded  flannel  shirt,  and 
the  holes  in  my  old  felt  hat,  and  of  how  all  these 
marked  me  as  belonging  now  to  another  world. 
And  so  I  quietly  stole  away  and  returned  to 
"  mine  own  people." 


CHAPTEK  in 

A    HOTEL    PORTER 

THE  HIGHLANDS,  ORANGE  COUNTY,  N.Y., 

Tuesday,  25  August,  1891. 

I  AM  now  a  hotel  porter.  More  strictly,  I 
have  just  resigned  my  position,  and  with  the  net 
proceeds  of  three  weeks'  wages,  which  amount 
to  four  dollars  and  two  cents,  I  am  ready  to 
make  a  fresh  start  in  the  early  morning.  The 
leisure  of  this  last  evening  at  the  hotel  I  shall 
give  to  the  task  of  summing  up  the  fragmentary 
notes  which  I  have  made  in  such  chance  hours 
of  rest  as  were  to  be  had  in  a  service  which  has 
kept  me  on  duty  from  five  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing until  eleven  at  night. 

Why  I  have  lingered  here  so  long  I  scarcely 
know.  The  time  has  flown  with  amazing  swift  • 
ness.  I  soon  found  my  new  job  easily  within 
my  powers,  as  compared  with  the  last  one,  and 
I  have  felt  a  certain  restful  security  which  has 
held  me  here  for  longer  than  I  meant  to  stay. 
But  I  am  ready  enough  to  set  out  now,  and  I  feel 

again  a  "  yearning  for  the  large  excitement "  that 
78 


A  HOTEL   PORTER  79 

comes  of  life  upon  the  open  highway,  and  the 
chances  of  a  living  earned  by  the  work  of  my 
hands. 

I  am  not  twenty  miles  beyond  my  last  sta- 
tion at  Highland  Falls.  It  was  raining  when  I 
left  Mrs.  Flaherty's  home,  and  she  pleaded  with 
me  to  stay ;  but  I  had  nothing  with  which  to 
pay  for  further  entertainment,  and  I  certainly 
had  not  the  courage  to  return  to  the  job  on  the 
old  Academic  building.  And  so  we  parted,  Mrs. 
Flaherty  standing  with  arms  akimbo  in  the  open 
door  of  her  cottage,  a  final  protest  against  so 
rash  a  venture  as  her  last  word,  while  I  lifted 
my  hat  to  her  and  to  Minnie,  who  peered  at 
me  from  the  shadow  of  the  passage  behind  her 
mother. 

It  must  be  owned  that  the  prospect  was  not 
encouraging  to  my  new  departure.  At  intervals 
of  less  than  a  mile,  sometimes,  I  was  driven  to 
seek  refuge  from  the  rain.  The  mountain-road 
was  soft  with  mud,  and  a  secure  footing  was  a 
fruitless  search.  In  the  hot  air  the  heavy  damp- 
ness added  to  the  discomfort  of  walking.  Only 
in  a  general  way  I  knew  that  the  road  would 
lead  me  eventually  over  the  Highlands  to  Mid- 
dletown,  which  lies  in  my  westward  course.  The 
beauty  of  the  country  was  lost  upon  me,  for  the 
mountain  was  cloaked  in  a  heavy  fog,  and  all 


80  THE   WORKERS 

that  rose  visible  were  short,  succeeding  sections 
of  muddy  road,  bordered  with  forests  of  oak  and 
hickory-nut  and  chestnut,  with  matted  weeds 
growing  thick  to  the  wagon-tracks,  and  clumps 
of  blackberry  bushes  standing  here  and  there 
along  the  lines  of  tottering  stone  walls  and 
wooden  fences. 

In  the  middle  of  the  noon  hour  I  reached 
Forest-of-Dean  Mines.  A  general  supply  store 
stands  on  the  roadside.  It  was  thronged  with 
Italian  laborers.  I  waited  in  its  shelter  until 
the  one-o'clock  whistle  recalled  the  men  to  their 
work,  and  then  I  made  terms  with  an  Italian  boy, 
who  was  left  in  charge,  for  a  five-cent  dinner. 
The  child  spoke  English  with  perfect  readiness. 
Almost  concealed  behind  the  counter,  he  looked 
wonderfully  important  and  business-like  as  he 
reached  up  to  apply  the  weights  and  fixed  his 
great  black  eyes  shrewdly  upon  the  oscillations 
of  the  balance.  For  five  cents  he  agreed  to  give 
me  two  ounces  of  cheese  and  six  soda-crackers. 

This  proved  a  hopelessly  inadequate  dinner, 
and  by  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  I  was  pain- 
fully hungry.  It  must  have  been  between  the 
hours  of  three  and  four  when,  on  a  stretch  of 
level  road,  I  met  a  tall,  over-grown  negro  youth 
with  a  bucket  of  sour  milk  in  each  hand,  which 
was  plainly  destined  for  a  pig-pen  that  I  had 


A  HOTEL  PORTER  81 

passed  but  a  few  yards  back.  Looming  dimly 
in  the  fog  behind  him,  I  could  see  the  outlines 
of  a  large  frame  structure  with  lightly  built  ve- 
randas engirding  it.  I  asked  the  youth  what  it 

was,  and  learned  that  it  was  a  hotel,  the  " 

House." 

'Did  he  think  that  I  could  get  a  job  there? ' 
He  was  doubtful  of  that,  but  advised  my  seeing 
the  "  boss,"  whom  I  should  find  in  the  office. 
The  office  was  deserted  when  I  entered  it. 
Some  men  were  playing  billiards  in  the  larger 
room  beyond,  which,  with  the  office,  forms  the 
ground  floor  of  a  building  detached  from  the 
main  hotel,  but  joined  by  a  veranda  on  the 
upper  story. 

I  sat  down,  and  began  to  dry  my  feet  at  a  slow 
fire  which  burned  in  an  iron  stove.  Presently 
there  came  in  a  tall  man,  straight  of  figure,  with 
black  eyes  and  hair  and  mustache  and  an  un- 
commonly dark  complexion.  I  rose  with  an 
inquiry  for  the  proprietor,  and  he  sat  down  with 
the  assurance  that  he  was  the  man.  There  were 
two  definite  requests  in  my  mind.  I  meant  to 
apply  first  for  a  job  ;  but,  expecting  nothing  of 
a  permanent  character,  I  resolved  to  ask  work 
for  the  remaining  afternoon  for  the  sake  of  food 
and  a  night's  shelter  from  the  rain.  To  my  sur- 
prise, instead  of  the  negative  I  expected  to  my 
6 


82  THE   WOEKERS 

first  request,  I  found  some  encouragement  iu  the 
proprietor's  manner.  He  owned  to  the  need  of 
a  porter  until  the  arrival,  in  a  few  days,  of  the 
man  who  had  been  engaged  for  that  position.  I 
declared  my  willingness  to  serve  and  to  begin 
work  on  the  moment.  He  pointed  out  that  he 
did  not  know  me,  and  that  he  was  not  in  the 
habit  of  engaging  servants  whom  he  did  not 
know.  '  Besides,  there  was  not  much  for  the 
porter  to  do,  and  for  his  services  he  was  paid  at 
the  rate  of  eight  dollars  a  month  and  his  board.' 
I  was  ready  with  a  plea  for  a  trial,  if  only  for 
a  single  day,  and  presently  the  proprietor  con- 
sented. 

He  rose,  and  at  once  began  to  instruct  me  in 
my  duty.  Standing  on  the  threshold  between 
the  office  and  billiard-room,  he  pointed  to  the 
bare  floors,  and  explained  that  they  must  be 
scrubbed  every  morning.  He  then  indicated  the 
score  or  more  of  oil-lamps  with  which  the  rooms 
were  lighted,  and  said  that  these  must  be  kept 
clean  and  filled.  Next  he  opened  a  door  from 
the  office  into  a  small  room  in  which  was  a  cot. 
That  was  to  be  my  sleeping  -  place,  and  he 
showed  me,  in  one  corner,  buckets  and  a  mop 
and  a  broom,  which  were  intended  for  the  porter's 
use.  Quite  abruptly  he  asked  to  see  my  hat, 
and,  wondering  at  the  request,  I  showed  him 


A  HOTEL  PORTER  83 

the  stained  black  felt  with  ragged  holes  in  the 
crown.  "  That  won't  do,"  he  said,  and  with  the 
word  he  took  down  from  a  peg  a  porter's  cloth 
cap  with  a  patent-lesifcher  visor,  and  bade  me 
wear  it  at  my  work.  It  was  much  too  small,  but 
by  dint  of  holding  my  head  with  care  I  could 
keep  it  on ;  thus  balancing  the  cap  as  best  I 
could,  and  with  the  broom  in  hand,  I  followed 
my  employer  for  further  instructions.  He  led 
the  way  to  the  verandas,  and  explained  that  they 
must  be  swept  each  morning  before  the  guests 
are  up,  and  again  in  the  afternoon,  at  the  hour 
when  they  are  least  in  use.  They  were  nearly 
deserted  now,  and  the  proprietor  told  me  to 
begin  my  work  by  sweeping  them,  and  then  he 
left  me. 

I  could  have  danced  with  sheer  delight.  Not 
if  I  had  deliberately  planned  it  could  I  have  ef- 
fected a  better  arrangement.  It  fitted  my  needs 
exactly.  A  change  to  lighter  work  for  a  time 
was  almost  a  necessity ;  for  my  hands  were  much 
blistered  and  torn,  and  they  refused  to  heal 
under  the  friction  of  my  last  employment.  And 
then — and  my  spirits  rose  buoyantly  to  this 
idea — here  was  a  chance  to  see  something  of 
domestic  service,  and  such  another,  under  con- 
ditions so  favorable,  might  not  offer  in  all  my 
journey  across  the  continent. 


84  THE   WORKERS 

"  This  morning,"  I  thought  to  myself,  "  I  was 
a  roving  laborer  in  search  of  work  and  with  but 
ten  cents  in  my  pocket ;  now  I  am  a  hotel  por- 
ter, with  bed  and  board  assured  and  an  open 
field  for  observation,  and  some  certainty  of  a 
surplus,  regardless  of  the  weather,  when  I  quit 
the  job,  although,  at  its  present  rate,  my  daily 
wage  is  a  fraction  less  than  twenty-seven  cents." 

As  I  swept  the  verandas  my  plans  began  to 
form  themselves  with  exciting  interest.  "  Here 
is  clearly  a  splendid  opportunity.  I  have  been 
frankly  told  that  a  porter  is  already  engaged, 
and  is  on  his  way,  and  that  my  occupancy  of 
office  is  simply  for  the  interregnum.  Plainly,  if 
I  can  give  evidence,  in  the  meantime,  of  useful- 
ness such  that,  when  the  regular  porter  comes, 
I  shall  be  continued  in  some  employment  about 
the  hotel,  that  will  be  a  distinct  achievement ; 
and  it  will  not  be  without  a  bearing  upon  the 
practical  question  as  to  what  a  penniless  man 
may  do  for  himself  in  the  way  of  winning  per- 
manent employment  that  offers  chances  of  pro- 
motion." I  resolved  to  bend  all  my  energies  to 
that. 

When  the  verandas  were  swept,  I  returned  to 
the  office  and  billiard-room,  and  began  to  study 
the  field.  The  floors  were  sadly  in  need  of 
scrubbing;  many  of  the  lamp  chimneys  wete 


A  HOTEL   POKTEB  85 

smoked,  and  all  were  far  from  clean ;  the  win- 
dows of  both  rooms  were  much  weather-stained ; 
and  the  paint  on  the  woodwork  could  be  im- 
proved by  a  thorough  washing.  I  then  went 
over  the  grounds,  and  found  the  walks  in  dis- 
order, and  the  lawns  matted  and  strewn  with 
litter. 

I  lit  the  lamps  at  nightfall,  and  awaited  a 
summons  to  supper.  While  in  the  region  of  the 
kitchen  I  noticed  that  an  extra  hand  might 
often  prove  of  service  there.  Back  in  my  own 
domain  for  the  evening,  I  found  my  offices  in 
demand  in  attendance  upon  the  billiard  and 
pool  tables. 

By  eleven  o'clock  the  house  was  still,  and  I 
was  at  liberty  to  go  to  bed.  Among  the  furni- 
ture in  the  office  was  an  alarm-clock.  This  I 
wound  up,  and  set  for  a  quarter  to  five. 

The  morning  was  splendidly  bright.  When 
I  stepped  out  upon  the  veranda  the  sun  had  al- 
ready cleared  the  tops  of  the  wooded  Highlands, 
and,  with  the  radiance  reflected  from  infinite 
rain-drops  in  the  forests,  there  rolled  from  their 
"  gorgeous  gloom  "  the  "  sweet  after  showers, 
ambrosial  air."  In  no  direction  was  the  outlook 
wide ;  but  the  air  gleamed  in  the  sunlight  with 
the  crystal  clearness  which  gives  its  peculiar 
quality  to  our  autumn,  and  which  so  early  as 


86  THE  WORKERS 

August  can  be  had  only  at  considerable  alti 
tudes. 

But  the  scrubbing  awaited  me,  and  was  a  task 
of  much  uncertainty  In  the  kitchen  I  filled  my 
buckets  with  water— cold  water,  I  am  sorry  to 
say.  I  threw  wide  open  the  doors  and  windows, 
and  first  sprinkled  the  floors,  as  I  had  seen  shop- 
keepers do,  and  then  swept  them  thoroughly. 
I  tried  to  apply  the  water  by  means  of  a  mop 
with  a  long  wooden  handle;  but  failing  com- 
pletely in  that,  I  detached  the  handle,  and  get- 
ting down  on  my  knees,  I  went  carefully  over 
the  surface  with  the  mop  in  hand.  Frequently 
I  changed  the  water,  and  when  the  scrubbing 
was  done  I  looked  the  damp  floors  over  with 
immense  satisfaction. 

Until  I  was  called  to  breakfast  I  spent  the 
time  in  sweeping  the  verandas  and  clearing  from 
the  walks  the  twigs  and  dead  leaves  with  which 
they  were  strewn  after  the  rain.  In  no  way 
was  I  prepared  for  the  alarming  surprise  which 
was  in  store  for  me.  When  I  returned  to  the 
oflice  I  stood  aghast  at  the  sight  of  the  newly 
scrubbed  floors.  They  were  dry  now,  and  were 
covered  with  fantastic  designs.  Every  final 
movement  of  the  mop  was  distinctly  traceable 
in  streaks  of  unmistakable  dirt.  And  there  was 
the  proprietor  at  work  at  his  desk,  and  he  faintly 


A   HOTEL   PORTER  87 

noticed  me  as  I  entered.  I  stood  expecting  my 
discharge,  with  what  fortitude  I  could  summon, 
but  receiving  no  further  attention  from  my  em- 
ployer, I  hurried  back  to  the  work  on  the  walks 
and  drives.  During  the  dinner-hour  I  brought 
a  broom  to  bear  upon  the  coiling  traceries  on 
the  floor,  and  succeeded  in  softening  their 
bolder  outlines. 

But  scrubbing  proved  a  peculiarly  difficult 
art.  On  the  second  morning  I  did  all  that  I 
had  done  before,  and  then  got  buckets  of  clean 
hot  water  and  a  fresh  mop ;  and  on  hands  and 
knees  I  went  over  the  floors,  wiping  them  up 
with  scrupulous  care.  The  result  was  no  better, 
once  dry,  and  the  designs  in  daubs  of  dirt  were 
as  fantastic  as  ever.  On  the  third  morning  I 
tried  still  a  new  plan,  but  only  with  the  result 
of  effecting  a  change  in  the  designs.  I  was 
learning  to  scrub  by  an  empirical  process,  and 
the  fourth  venture  approached  success.  Hot 
water  and  soap,  and  a  scrub-brush  vigorously 
applied,  and  then  a  final  swabbing,  left  the  floors 
comparatively  clean,  and  free  from  the  persistent 
mop-stains. 

Only  one  more  of  my  duties  I  found  difficult 
of  mastery.  Like  scrubbing  the  floors,  washing 
the  windows  was  full  of  surprises.  From  one 
of  the  house -maids  I  learned  that  clean,  hot, 


88  THE  WORKERS 

soapy  water  was  the  prime  necessity.  I  was  de- 
lighted with  the  first  result,  for  after  the  wash- 
ing within  and  without,  I  had  visions  of  the 
glass  in  a  high  state  of  clean  transparency.  But 
the  sun  had  absorbed  the  water,  and  left  stains 
of  tenacious  soap,  when  I  came  to  the  polishing, 
and  after  hours  of  labor  I  almost  despaired  of 
ever  bringing  the  panes  to  a  reasonably  untar- 
nished condition. 

The  work  has  varied  so  little  in  detail  that 
the  history  of  a  single  day  is  an  epitome  of  the 
three  weeks'  service  : 

I  am  up  at  a  little  before  five  in  the  morning. 
The  floors  of  the  office  and  billiard-room  are  my 
first  concern;  and  by  the  time  these  are  scrubbed 
it  is  six  o'clock.  The  chef  early  noticed  my  will- 
ingness to  lend  a  hand  in  the  kitchen,  and  he 
rewards  me  with  a  liberal  supply  of  hot  water 
every  morning,  and  a  cup  of  coffee  and  a  slice 
of  bread  at  six  o'clock  when  he  takes  his  own. 
Fortified  in  this  way,  I  sweep  the  verandas  and 
walks,  and  rake  the  drives  and  lawns  until 
breakfast. 

There  is  a  curious,  horizontal,  social  cleavage 
among  the  "  help."  I  belong  to  the  lower  stra- 
tum. I  first  noticed  the  distinction  at  our 
meals.  The  negro  head-waiter,  and  the  pastry- 
cook, and  the  head-gardener,  and  the  company 


A   HOTEL   PORTER  89 

of  Irish  maids,  who  do  double  duty  as  waitresses 
and  house-maids,  take  their  meals  in  the  dining- 
room  after  the  guests  are  served.  The  rem- 
nants of  these  two  servings  are  then  heaped 
upon  a  table  in  a  long,  low,  dimly  lighted  room 
which  intervenes  between  the  kitchen  and  din- 
ing-room, and  there  we  of  the  lowest  class  help 
ourselves.  Our  coterie  consists  of  an  English 
maid,  a  recent  arrival  from  Liverpool,  who 
serves  as  a  dishwasher,  three  negro  laundresses, 
two  negro  stable-boys  and  myself,  with  a  vary- 
ing element  in  two  or  three  hired  men,  who 
drop  in  irregularly  from  the  region  of  the 
barns. 

Martha,  the  English  maid,  is  chiefly  in  charge 
here,  and  she  bravely  tries  to  serve,  and  to 
bring  some  order  out  of  the  chaos ;  but  the  task 
is  beyond  her.  We  take  places  as  we  find  them 
vacant,  and  each  helps  himself  from  what  re- 
mains to  be  eaten  of  the  fragments  of  the  meal 
just  ended.  There  is  always  a  towering  sup- 
ply, but  an  abundance  of  a  sort  that  deadens 
your  appetite,  like  the  blow  of  a  sand-bag. 

I  reproached  myself  with  fastidiousness  at 
first,  and  imagined  that  to  the  other  servants, 
who  shared  it,  the  fare  was  entirely  palatable ; 
and  so  I  was  surprised  when,  at  a  dinner  early 
in  my  stay,  one  of  the  negro  laundresses  seized 


00  THE  WORKERS 

a  plate  heaped  with  scraps  of  meat,  from  which 
we  had  all  been  helping  ourselves,  and  carried 
it  out  with  the  indignant  remark  that  it  was  fit 
only  for  the  dogs,  adding,  sententiously,  as  she 
disappeared  through  the  door  :  "  We  are  not 
dogs  yet;  we  are  supposed  to  be  human."  And 
back  to  her  afternoon's  work  she  went,  although 
she  had  eaten  only  a  morsel. 

These  meals  were  curiously  solemn  func- 
tions ;  scarcely  a  word  was  ever  spoken.  Mar- 
tha was  "  cumbered  about  much  serving,"  and 
very  heroically  she  tried  to  impart  some  decent 
order  to  the  meal,  and  a  cheerfuller  tone  to  the 
company.  I  never  knew  the  cause  of  the  sullen 
unsociability  which  possessed  us,  whether  it  was 
ill-humor  born  of  the  physical  weariness  from 
which  all  the  servants  seemed  constantly  to  suf- 
fer as  a  result  of  the  high  pressure  of  work  at 
the  height  of  the  season,  or  the  revolting  fare 
which  often  sent  us  unrested  and  unfed  from 
our  meals. 

It  is  the  vision  of  supper  that  will  linger 
clearest  in  my  memory.  The  long,  reeking 
room  seen  faintly  in  the  yellow  light  of  one  be- 
grimed oil-lamp ;  the  ceiling  so  low  that  I  can 
easily  reach  it  with  my  upstretched  hand,  and 
dotted  over  with  innumerable  flies.  The  room 
is  a  paradise  for  flies,  which  swarm  most  in  our 


A   HOTEL   PORTER  91 

food  that  lies  in  ill-assorted  heaps  down  the 
middle  of  a  rough  wooden  table.  Here  we  sit 
in  chance  order,  black  and  white  faces  often  al- 
ternating ;  the  white  ones  livid  in  their  vivid 
contrast  with  the  background  of  the  room's 
deep  shadows,  and  the  others  ghastly  visible  in 
the  general  blackness  from  which  gleam  the 
whites  of  eyes.  Sometimes  the  two  stable-boys 
find  seats  together ;  and  then  they  bid  defiance 
to  the  general  gloom,  and  are  soon  bubbling 
over  with  musical  laughter,  that  rolls  responsive 
to  the  least  remark  from  either.  It  is  interest- 
ing at  such  times  to  watch  Martha's  face.  The 
nervous  energy  which  is  always  struggling  there 
against  a  look  of  utter  weariness  shines  victori- 
ous now,  in  the  light  of  a  new  hope  that  a  bet- 
ter cheer  has  come  at  last  to  her  table. 

From  breakfast  I  hurry  back  to  the  work 
of  putting  the  grounds  in  order.  The  walks  I 
sweep  every  morning,  and  then  rake  the  drives 
and  the  lawns. 

It  was  at  this  work  that  I  early  found  con- 
vincing proof  of  the  completeness  of  my  social 
change.  The  lawns  at  certain  hours  are  in  the 
possession  of  nurse-maids  and  infants.  I  have 
never  calculated  the  number  of  children  in  the 
hotel,  but  their  ages  apparently  mark  every 
stage  of  advance  from  a  few  weeks  to  as  many 


92  THE  WORKERS 

years.  My  liking  for  children  amounts  to  rev- 
erent devotion,  and  it  gave  me  a  shock,  from 
which  I  have  not  recovered,  to  find  that,  un- 
shaven and  uncouth  in  workmen's  clothes,  I  had 
become  for  them  a  bogey  with  whom  their 
nurses  frighten  them  into  obedience,  warning 
them  in  excited  tones  with  "  Here  comes  the 
man  to  take  you  away !  " 

It  was  at  this  work,  too,  that  I  once  incurred 
the  avowed  displeasure  of  a  guest.  She  was  a 
beautiful  Philistine,  with  a  keenly  penetrating 
twang  and  turns  of  speech  that  bespoke  the  re- 
gions of  Sixth  Avenue  and  Fourteenth  Street. 
But  she  was  remarkably  handsome,  tall  and 
graceful,  and  of  high-bred  bearing  and  of  a  thor- 
oughly aristocratic  type.  It  must  be  confessed 
that  whenever  she  was  visible  from  my  regions 
the  section  of  the  grounds  which  commanded 
a  view  of  her,  and  was  yet  fairly  beyond  the 
sound  of  her  voice,  received  assiduous  atten- 
tion from  me  ;  for  she  was  highly  remunerative 
to  look  at.  I  was  sweeping  a  section  of  the 
walk  immediately  in  front  of  the  hotel.  Unlike 
the  work  at  West  Point,  a  porter's  duties  do  not 
preclude  mental  effort.  Absorbed  in  thought 
and  quite  unconscious  of  my  surroundings,  I 
was  suddenly  recalled  to  them  and  to  my  sta- 
tion in  life  by  nasal  accents  raised  in  strong 


A   HOTEL   PORTER  93 

reproof.  I  looked  up  in  bewilderment,  and  saw 
confronting  me  the  beautiful  Philistine,  holding 
a  little  child  by  each  hand.  Very  straight  she 
stood  and  bright-eyed,  with  her  head  thrown 
back,  and  an  exquisite  flush  over  her  face,  and 
her  beautiful  lips  curled  in  anger,  as  she  scold- 
ed me  roundly  for  raising  so  much  dust.  I  was 
unfamiliar  with  the  etiquette  of  the  situation,  so 
I  held  my  peace,  and  respectfully  touched  my 
cap,  inwardly  calling  her  the  beauty  that  she 
was  as  she  stood  there,  and  ardently  hoping 
that  she  would  scold  me  more. 

From  the  lawns  I  go  to  the  kitchen,  and  offer 
my  services  to  the  chef.  Usually  he  has  ready 
for  me  a  basket  of  potatoes  to  peel.  In  a  little 
shed  by  the  kitchen-door  I  sit  and  peel  endless- 
ly. The  servants  are  flocking  in  and  out  through 
the  open  door  in  the  fetid  air.  The  heat  is  of 
the  suffocating  kind,  in  which  the  heavy  air  lies 
dead.  It  is  nearing  the  dinner-hour,  and  every- 
one must  work  with  almost  a  frenzy  of  effort. 
The  high  tension  communicates  itself  to  us  all, 
and  we  feel  the  nervous  strain  upon  our  tem- 
pers. The  hundred  and  one  petty  annoyances 
which  cause  the  friction  of  household  service 
prove  too  much,  and  the  tension  bursts  into  a 
furious  quarrel  between  the  Irish  pastry-cook 
and  the  negro  head-waiter.  No  one  has  time  to 


94  THE  WORKERS 

heed  them,  but  his  storming  oaths  and  her 
plaintive,  whining  key,  maintained  with  provok- 
ing tenacity,  whatever  relief  they  bring  to  them, 
are  far  from  soothing  to  the  rest  of  us. 

The  maids  are  gathered  from  all  parts  of  the 
hotel.  Most  of  them  have  been  on  duty  since 
six  o'clock,  and  after  the  morning's  work  there 
now  awaits  them  the  rush  of  serving  dinner. 
Want  of  sufficient  sleep  and  utter  physical 
weariness  have  drawn  deep  lines  in  their  faces. 
Presently  one  of  them,  a  slender  young  girl, 
sinks  exhausted  into  a  seat,  and  we  hear  her  no- 
tion of  the  summum  bonum :  "  Oh,  I  wish  I  was 
rich,  and  could  swing  all  day  in  a  hammock  !  " 
I  follow  the  direction  of  her  eyes.  Across  a 
wide  stretch  of  lawn  and  in  the  shade  of  some 
clustering  maples  I  see  the  gleam  of  a  white 
dress  rocking  gently  in  a  hammock,  and  I  catch 
the  flutter  of  a  fan  and  the  light  on  an  open  page. 

Sometimes  I  am  in  the  region  of  the  kitchen 
during  the  dinner-hour  itself.  As  an  experi- 
ence, I  fancy  that  it  is  not  unlike  that  of  being 
behind  the  scenes  in  the  course  of  the  play. 
The  kitchen  and  pantry  are  ill-ventilated,  and 
axe  hot  to  suffocation.  About  a  counter-like 
partition  which  separates  the  two  rooms  crowd 
the  eager  waitresses,  rehearsing  in  shrill  tones 
their  orders  to  the  chef  and  his  assistant.  There 


I  HELD  MY  PEACE,  AND  RESPECTFULLY  TOUCHED  MY  CAP,  1NWAKDLY 
CALLING  HER  THE  BEAUTY  THAT  SHE  WAS. 


A   HOTEL   PORTER  95 

is  a  babel  of  voices  striving  to  be  heard,  and  a 
ceaseless  clatter  of  dishes,  and  a  hurrying  to 
and  fro.  The  chef  is  not  a  bad  fellow,  but  his 
temper  is  rarely  proof  against  the  harassing 
annoyances  incident  upon  serving  a  dinner,  and 
he  loses  it  in  a  torrent  of  oaths.  The  volume 
of  noise  increases  until  the  height  of  dinner  is 
reached  and  passed,  and  then  it  subsides,  quite 
like  a  thunder-storm. 

The  afternoon's  work  keeps  me,  for  the  most 
part,  in  my  own  regions.  The  lamps  must  first 
be  cleaned  and  filled,  and  then  the  billiard- 
tables  brushed  for  the  evening  play,  and  there 
may  remain  unfinished  work  on  the  grounds, 
which  claims  me  until  it  is  time  to  sweep  the 
vetandas  again. 

When  I  am  out  of  the  office  I  must  be  careful 
that  the  doors  and  the  windows  are  open,  and 
my  ears  attentive  to  the  bel', ;  for  I  am  porter 
and  bell-boy  in  one. 

A  bell-boy  is  sometimes  at  a  disadvantage. 
He  is  not  supposed  to  explain,  and  circum- 
stances may  wrong  him. 

The  bell  rings.  I  run  to  the  indicator,  and 
then  climb  to  the  door  that  bears  the  correspond- 
ing number.  A  lady  asks  for  a  pitcher  of  ice- 
water.  Unluckily  the  ice-chest  is  locked,  and 
the  key,  I  learn,  is  in  the  keeping  of  the  head- 


96  THE  WORKEES 

Waiter.  After  hasty  search,  I  find  that  official 
seated  on  a  rock  in  the  shade  behind  the  barn, 
conversing  with  some  of  the  hands.  He  tells 
me  that  there  is  no  ice  in  the  chest,  and  advises 
my  going  to  the  ice-house.  I  do  so  with  all 
possible  speed,  and  am  fortunate  enough  to  find 
a  piece  of  loose  ice  not  far  below  the  surface  of 
saw-dust.  Back  to  the  kitchen  I  run  with  it, 
wash  it,  and  chop  it  into  fragments.  But  all 
this  has  taken  time ;  it  is  very  hot,  and  the  lady, 
no  doubt,  is  very  thirsty.  As  I  hand  her  the 
pitcher  of  water,  her  caustic  acknowledgment 
expresses  anything  but  gratitude. 

The  verandas  are  no  sooner  swept  for  the 
afternoon  than  the  stage  appears  from  the  sta- 
tion. I  must  be  in  attendance  to  relieve  the 
newly  arrived  guests  of  their  lighter  luggage 
and,  with  the  help  of  one  of  the  stable-boys,  to 
carry  their  trunks  to  their  rooms. 

It  was  in  such  services  as  these  that  I  met 
with  an  insuperable  difficulty.  Before  I  launched 
upon  the  enterprise  of  earning  my  living  by  man- 
ual labor  I  settled  it  with  myself  that  I  would 
shrink  from  no  honest  work,  however  menial, 
that  might  fall  within  the  range  of  my  experi- 
ment. I  confess  that,  in  my  present  avocation, 
when  it  came  to  the  necessity  of  cleaning  the 
cuspidors  used  by  a  tobacco-eating  gentry,  the 


A   HOTEL   PORTER  97 

task  was  accomplished  only  after  hard  setting  of 
teeth,  and  much  involuntary  contraction  of  mus- 
cles. But  I  hasten  to  let  fall  a  veil  already  too 
widely  drawn  from  the  hidden  rites  of  a  porter's 
service.  The  difficulty  in  point  was  of  another 
kind,  and  had  to  do  with  tips.  I  was  not  un- 
prepared for  the  emergency,  for  the  proprietor 
had  hinted,  in  our  first  conversation,  with  every 
mark  of  embarrassment,  and  with  a  tone  of 
apology  for  the  eight  dollars  a  month,  that  that 
amount  was  sure  to  be  supplemented  by  gratui- 
ties. It  might  have  been  different  under  other 
circumstances ;  but  when  I  had  seen  the  guests 
and  noted  the  unmistakable  marks  of  residence 
in  cheap  flats  and  low-rent  suburban  cottages, 
and  realized  the  careful  husbanding  of  funds 
and  the  close  calculation  which  make  a  summer 
outing  possible  to  them,  their  fees  were  some 
degrees  beyond  the  possible  to  me. 

In  the  case  of  the  luggage,  it  was  easy  to  bow 
acknowledgment  and  to  decline  in  favor  of  Sam, 
the  stable-boy,  who,  beaming  with  delight,  stood 
ready  to  receive  gifts  to  any  amount,  and  who 
loved  me  warmly.  But  when  I  was  alone  with 
some  guest  in  the  act  of  a  personal  service,  the 
situation  created  by  a  proffered  fee  proved  em- 
barrassing to  us  both,  and  was  not  to  be  relieved 
by  bows  and  expressions  of  sincere  appreciation. 
7 


98  THE   WORKERS 

The  evening's  duties  are  usually  the  lighting 
of  the  lamps  at  nightfall,  and  assorting  the 
mail  that  comes  in  after  supper,  and  attending 
the  billiard  and  pool  tables,  and  answering  the 
bell-calls.  Saturday  afternoons  and  evenings 
are  varied  with  industrious  preparations  for  ex- 
tra guests.  This  makes  added  demands  upon  us 
all,  and  the  servants  dread  Sunday  as  bringing 
always  the  severest  strain  of  the  week.  My  own 
share  of  extra  work  is  confined  to  Saturda}7  after- 
noon and  evening,  when  I  put  up  cots,  and  carry 
bed-linen  and  blankets  about,  under  the  orders 
of  the  house-keeper,  usually  until  midnight.  And 
when  I  go  to  sleep  at  last  it  is  on  the  hay  in  the 
barn,  for  my  room  is  swept  and  garnished  on 
Saturday  and  given  up  to  a  guest.  It  is  no  hard- 
ship to  sleep  on  the  hay,  but,  through  knowledge 
gained  from  the  scale  of  prices  posted  in  the 
office,  I  can  but  understand  what  an  admirable 
business  arrangement  it  is  for  the  proprietor 
to  so  utilize  my  room  over  Sunday.  The  added 
revenue  which  is  thus  yielded  during  my  stay 
amounts  to  fifteen  dollars,  and  as  the  total  sum 
of  my  wages  for  the  three  weeks  is  five  dollars 
and  sixty-seven  cents,  the  net  returns  to  the  pro- 
prietor in  service  and  profit  speak  well  for  his 
management. 

But  there  is  other  evidence  of  good  manage- 


A   HOTEL  PORTER  99 

ment,  and  in  a  quarter  that  appeals  to  me  more. 
His  treatment  of  the  "  help "  is  so  uniformly 
fair.  I  do  not  like  him ;  but,  so  far  as  I  know, 
I  am  alone  in  my  dislike  among  all  the  servants 
of  the  house ;  and  I  cannot  fail  to  see  that  a  feel- 
ing of  personal  loyalty  is  behind  much  of  the 
patient,  enduring  service  to  which  I  have  been 
witness.  Only  once  was  there  an  approach  to  a 
collision  between  us,  and  certainly  I  emerged 
from.that  in  rather  a  ridiculous  light. 

It  was  but  two  or  three  evenings  ago.  Usu- 
ally I  have  been  able  to  eat  at  our  table  enough 
at  least  to  deaden  appetite,  but  on  that  evening 
I  could  eat  nothing.  As  I  passed  through  the 
pastry-kitchen  on  my  way  back  to  the  office  I 
saw  a  few  pieces  of  corn-bread  which  were  ap- 
parently to  be  thrown  away.  I  asked  the  cook 
for  some,  and  she  readily  told  me  to  help  my- 
self. On  a  flagging  near  the  kitchen-door  I  sat 
down  to  eat  the  bread,  and  the  proprietor  must 
have  seen  me  there  in  the  dim  light.  I  had  not 
finished  when  the  negro  head-waiter  came  upon 
me  in  much  excitement.  I  belong  to  a  lower 
order  of  service  than  he,  but  he  treats  me  civilly, 
and  there  was  nothing  more  than  nervousness  in 
his  manner  now. 

"  You  mustn't  get  cheese  from  the  pantry  with- 
out leave,"  he  was  saying  in  high  agitation. 


100  THE   WORKERS 

I  thought  that  he  had  gone  mad,  but  he  pres- 
ently made  clear  that  the  proprietor  had  come 
to  him  with  the  complaint  that  I  was  eating 
cheese,  which  is  kept  in  the  pantry,  and  is  not 
intended  for  the  lower  servants.  The  supper- 
table  had  upset  me,  and  the  corn-bread  which 
caused  the  present  trouble  had  been  cold  com- 
fort. I  was  furiously  angry  now,  hot  and  aglow 
with  a  passion  of  rage  which  at  that  moment  was 
a  splendid  sensation.  With  great  civility  I 
thanked  the  head- waiter,  and  explained  the  mis- 
take, and  showed  him  a  fragment  of  bread  still 
in  my  hand,  and  then  asked  where  I  should  find 
the  proprietor.  He  had  gone  to  the  office,  and 
I  followed  him  there,  scarcely  conscious  of 
touching  the  ground.  It  was  close  upon  the 
mail-hour,  and  the  office  was  crowded  with 
guests.  Near  the  stove  stood  the  proprietor, 
and  he  saw  me  as  I  approached  him.  I  was  look- 
ing him  full  in  the  eyes  when  I  told  him,  with- 
out introductory  remarks,  that  if  he  had  any 
further  criticisms  to  offer  upon  my  conduct  he 
was  at  liberty  to  bring  them  directly  to  me.  If 
I  had  had  any  sense  of  humor  left  I  should  have 
laughed  then  at  his  appearance,  and  have  fore- 
stalled the  ridiculous  scene,  in  which,  with  a 
look  of  distressed  embarrassment,  he  edged  tow- 
ard the  door,  and  I  followed,  with  my  eyes  on 


A   HOTEL   PORTER  101 

his,  as  I  treated  him  to  the  most  cynically  pat- 
ronizing sentences  which  I  could  frame,  while 
the  guests  looked  on  in  silence. 

Once  in  the  quiet  of  the  veranda,  he  explained 
to  me  that,  since  he  holds  the  head- waiter  re- 
sponsible in  such  matters,  he  had  naturally  com- 
plained to  him,  and  added  that  he  was  sorry  if 
any  mistake  had  been  made.  I  pointed  out 
the  mistake,  and  felt  the  fool  that  I  was,  and 
spent  the  evening  in  a  long  walk  over  the  hills, 
returning  only  in  time  to  lock  up  and  put  out 
the  lights. 

As  a  basis  of  comparison  I  have  now  the  two 
short  terms  of  service  at  "West  Point  and  here. 
I  received  employment  at  both  places  as  almost 
any  laborer  might  have  done,  and  I  found  in 
them  both  the  means  of  livelihood.  But  as  a 
servant,  I  have  found  more  than  that.  The  man 
who  had  been  engaged  as  porter  appeared  about 
a  week  after  my  arrival.  He  proved  to  be  Mar- 
tha's brother,  and  a  newly  landed  immigrant. 
There  was  no  mistaking  the  last  fact.  His 
peaked  countenance,  with  surviving  traces  of 
ruddy  color;  his  queer  pot-hat,  that  rested  on 
his  ears ;  his  bright  woollen  tippet,  defying  the 
heat ;  his  baggy  suit,  which  had  doubtless  served 
for  day  and  night  through  all  the  voyage ;  his 
heavy  boots — all  proclaimed  him  the  raw  ma- 


102  THE  WORKERS 

terial  of  a  new  citizen.  Nor  could  there  be  a 
doubt  of  his  kinship  with  Martha.  She  stood 
with  me  awaiting  the  stage,  directing  eager 
glances  down  the  carriage -drive  and  excitedly 
asking  questions  about  its  coming.  She  was 
the  first  to  see  it,  and  to  recognize  her  brother 
on  the  seat  with  Sam,  and  she  fluttered  about  in 
the  unconcealed  delight  of  affection,  perfectly 
unconscious  of  everyone,  until  her  arms  were 
about  her  brother's  neck,  and  she  was  leading 
him  away  to  the  kitchen. 

Nothing  was  said  to  me  about  leaving ;  Mar- 
tha's brother  became  her  assistant  as  a  dish- 
washer, and  learned  to  lend  a  generally  useful 
hand  in  the  kitchen. 

And  so  I  had  fairly  won  my  place,  and  had 
open  before  me  a  way  of  promotion.  Experi- 
ence alone  could  disclose  the  value  of  the  open- 
ing ;  but  the  " House  "  is  a  winter  as  well 

as  a  summer  resort,  and  a  porter's  services  are 
therefore  in  demand  through  the  year.  If 
efficient,  intelligent  labor  could  not  eventually 
win  higher  and  more  responsible  position  in 
such  an  enterprise,  and  possibly  gain,  at  last, 
an  interest  in  the  business,  the  case  is  surely 
exceptional. 

It  is  the  change  in  external  conditions  and  its 
bearing  upon  me  as  a  human  worker  which  have 


A   HOTEL   PORTER  103 

most  impressed  me,  in  contrast  with  my  first  ex- 
perience. 

I  worked  for  nine  hours  and  a  quarter  at  "West 
Point,  and  had,  at  the  end  of  the  day's  labor,  if 
the  weather  had  been  good,  eighty-five  cents 
above  actual  living  expenses.  Here  I  have  usu- 
ally worked  from  five  o'clock  in  the  morning 
until  eleven  at  night,  at  all  manner  of  menial 
drudgery,  and  have  gone  to  bed  in  the  comfort- 
able assurance  that,  in  addition  to  food  and 
shelter,  I  have  earned  twenty-six  cents  and  a 
fraction.  And  yet,  as  a  matter  of  choice,  purely 
with  reference  to  the  conditions  under  which 
the  work  is  done,  I  should  infinitely  prefer  a 
week  of  my  present  duties  to  a  single  day  at 
such  labor  as  that  at  West  Point. 

The  work  here  is  specific,  and  it  is  mine,  to 
be  done  as  I  best  can.  Responsibility  and  in- 
itiative and  personal  pride  enter  here,  and  ren- 
der the  eighteen  hours  of  this  wrork  incomparably 
shorter  than  the  nine  hours  of  my  last.  It  is 
true  that  it  partakes  of  the  character  of  much 
household  service,  in  that  it  is  ever  doing  and  is 
never  done ;  but  there  is  a  feeling  of  accomplish- 
ment in  the  fact  of  getting  my  quarters  clean 
and  the  grounds  in  order,  and  in  keeping  them 
so,  although  it  be  at  the  cost  of  labor  always 
repeated  and  never  ended. 


104  THE   WORKEKS 

Perhaps  it  is  because  I  am  still  haunted  by 
the  thought  of  the  cruel  bondage  of  unskilled 
labor,  under  which  men  exhaust  their  powers  of 
body  and  mind  and  soul  at  work  that,  in  the 
very  conditions  of  its  doing,  seems  to  harden 
them  into  slaves,  instead  of  strengthening  them 
into  men,  that  I  fail  to  feel  keenly  the  want  of 
time  that  I  can  call  my  own.  I  have  an  inde- 
pendence of  vastly  better  sort  in  having  work 
which  I  can  call  my  own,  and  which  I  can  do 
with  some  human  pleasure  and  interest  and 
profit  in  its  performance,  however  hard  it 
may  be. 

Slender  as  is  my  acquaintance  with  either,  I 
yet  see,  with  perfect  certainty,  that  the  standard 
of  character  is  higher  in  this  company  of  ser- 
vants than  among  the  gang  of  unskilled  laborers. 
Other  causes  may  have  a  share  in  this  result, 
but  the  efficient  cause  is  clear  in  the  better  moral 
atmosphere  in  which  the  work  is  done.  I  do 
not  know  how  conscious  is  the  feeling  of  unity 
of  interest  with  their  employer,  or  of  copartnery 
with  one  another  in  labor,  or  of  personal  respon- 
sibility ;  but  all  these  motives  must  play  a  part 
in  effecting  the  successful  accomplishment  of 
the  house-work,  with  its  intricacies  and  inter- 
dependencies  which  render  constant  personal 
oversight  impossible.  Of  course  the  proprietor 


A  HOTEL  PORTER  105 

has  much  trouble  with  the  "help,"  and  there 
are  frequent  changes  among  them;  but  the 
body  of  the  company  remains  the  same,  and 
some  of  the  servants  have  been  here  for  several 
seasons. 

Certainly  one  is  obliged  to  look  elsewhere  than 
to  wages  for  a  cause  of  better  work  as  showing 
a  finer  moral  fibre,  if  I  may  judge  from  my 
twenty-six  cents  a  day.  I  dare  say  that  mine  is 
the  minimum  wage.  The  chef  told  me  that  he 
gets  sixty  dollars  a  month,  and  I  fancy  that  his 
is  the  maximum  sum.  It  is  purely  a  guess,  but 
I  venture  it,  that  the  average  among  us  would  not 
exceed  five  dollars  a  week.  Five  dollars  a  week 
above  the  necessaries  of  life  will  buy  much  among 
the  commonest  proletariat.  Under  certain  con- 
ditions that,  or  even  a  less  sum,  might  buy  in- 
dustrious and  almost  continuous  effort  for  four- 
teen or  eighteen  hours  a  day,  but  not,  I  fancy, 
in  the  present  economic  condition  of  household 
servants  in  this  country.  There  must  be  other 
causes  to  account  for  that. 

The  want  of  time  which  is  at  one's  own  com- 
mand is  the  commonest  objection  urged  against 
domestic  service  as  accounting  for  the  ready 
choice  of  harder  work  with  far  less  of  creature 
comfort,  but  with  definite  limits  and  entire  dis- 
posing of  the  rest  of  one's  day.  Stronger  than 


106  THE  WORKERS 

this,  I  fancy,  as  an  objection,  is  a  social  disa- 
bility which  attaches  to  service,  and  under  the 
sway  of  which  a  house-maid  has  not  the  pros- 
pect of  so  good  a  marriage,  socially  considered, 
as  a  factory  girl,  who  earns  a  scanty  living,  but 
is  subject  to  no  one's  command  outside  of  the 
factory  gates. 

The  strength  of  social  conventions  is  a  force 
to  be  reckoned  with  among  the  working  classes. 
It  may  seem  that  below  the  standing  of  folk 
gentle  by  birth  and  breeding  there  are  no  social 
standards  or  social  barriers  of  serious  strength. 
I  begin  to  suspect  that  distinctions  are  as  clearly 
made  on  one  side  of  that  line  as  the  other.  Very 
certain  I  am  that  the  upper  servants  here  and 
the  nurses  and  house-maids  are  removed  from 
us  of  the  clothes-washing  and  dish-washing  and 
floor-scrubbing  fraternity  by  a  very  consider- 
able social  gulf. 

A  course  of  eighteen  hours  of  continuous  daily 
duty  soon  gives  one  a  surprising  relish  for  the 
pleasure  of  doing  as  you  please.  I  know  now 
something  of  the  delight  of  a  "  Sunday  off."  I 
got  my  first  leave  of  absence  one  afternoon  when 
I  was  allowed  to  go  to  the  village  of  Central 
Valley  to  have  my  boots  mended.  Not  since  I 
was  a  small  boy  at  boarding-school  have  I  felt 
the  same  vivid  pleasure  in  going  freely  forth, 


A   HOTEL   PORTER  107 

knowing  that,  for  the  time,  I  was  my  own  mas- 
ter ;  and  when  I  returned  to  the  hotel,  it  was 
very  much  with  the  school-boy's  feeling  of  pass- 
ing again  under  the  yoke. 


CHAPTER  IV 

A  HIRED  MAN  AT  AN  ASYLUM 

WlLKESBARRE,    PENNSYLVANIA, 

Saturday,  September  19,  1891. 

I  HAVE  a  wide  sweep  of  country  to  cover  from 

the  " House  "  in  the  Highlands  above  the 

Hudson,  where  I  served  as  a  porter,  and  received 
with  my  wages  a  reference  to  the  effect  that  my 
work  was  done  "  faithfully  and  well,"  to  the  coal 
regions  of  Pennsylvania  in  the  valley  of  the 
Susquehanna. 

My  spirits  rise  at  every  recollection  of  the 
journey.  For  days  I  walked  through  the  crisp 
autumn  air,  breathing  its  tingling  freshness,  and 
barely  sensible  of  fatigue. 

The  way  led  me  over  the  rich  farm-lands  of 
Orange  County,  and  across  the  Delaware,  and 
through  the  lonely  wilderness  of  the  Pennsylva- 
nia border,  until  I  emerged  upon  the  hills  above 
the  Susquehanna,  and  caught  sight  of  the  splen- 
did valley,  with  its  native  beauty  hideously 
marred  by  the  blackened  trails  of  forest  fires 
108 


A  HIRED   MAN   AT   AN   ASYLUM  109 

and  the  monstrous  heaps  of  culm  that  mark  the 
mouth  of  the  coal-pits. 

So  far  work  has  not  failed  me,  unless  I  mark 
as  an  exception  the  single  case  when  I  began  a 
search,  and  brought  it  abruptly  to  an  end  by 
descending  suddenly  upon  a  camping  party  of 
friends. 

Quietly  and  mysteriously,  I  fancy,  to  the  other 

servants,  I  appeared  among  them  at  the  " 

House,"  and  with  as  little  notice  I  tried  to  steal 
away.  Instead  of  going  to  the  kitchen  at  five 
o'clock  on  that  Wednesday  morning  for  scrub- 
bing-water,  I  took  to  the  road  with  my  pack, 

and  left  behind  me  the  " House  "  awaking 

to  life  in  the  servants'  quarters. 

1  had  been  a  gang-laborer  and  a  hotel  porter, 
and  now  I  wondered  what  my  next  role  was  to 
be.  But  the  feeling  was  simply  a  genial  curios- 
ity, and  was  free  from  the  timid  shrinking  with 
which  I  set  out  from  the  minister's  house  in 
Wilton,  and  my  lodgings  at  Highland  Falls. 
Then  it  was  under  the  spur  of  self-compulsion 
that  I  launched  afresh  upon  this  fortuitous  life. 
With  strong  animal  instinct  I  had  clung  to  any 
haven  where  shelter  and  food  were  secure. 
Now  I  warmly  welcomed  a  freer  courage  born 
of  experience.  Not  too  sure  of  newly  gained 
powers,  but  like  a  boy  learning  to  swim,  I  fan- 


110  THE   WORKERS 

cied  that  I  felt  the  strength  of  some  confidence 
in  the  novel  element.  Light-hearted  in  spite  of 
my  pack,  which  gained  weight  with  every  step, 
I  walked  briskly  along  the  country  roads, 
charmed  with  everything  I  saw,  and  feeling 
sure  that  my  wages  would  see  me  through  to 
another  job.  Was  it  a  real  acquisition,  and  had 
I  learned  to  catch  the  strange  pleasure  of  this 
fugitive  life?  or  did  the  difference  lie  in  the 
bracing  cool  of  the  morning,  and  the  beauty  of 
the  open  country,  and  the  sense  of  freedom  after 
long  restraint,  and,  most  subtly  of  all,  in  that 
little,  hoarded  balance  in  my  purse  ? 

It  was  nightfall  when  I  entered  Middletown, 
and  too  late  to  look  for  work.  With  my  eye 
upon  the  rows  of  cottages  which  line  the  street 
by  which  I  entered  the  town,  I  soon  found  a 
boarding-house  for  workmen.  A  bed  could  be 
had  for  twenty  cents.  At  a  bakery  near  by  I 
got  a  loaf  of  bread  and  a  quart  of  milk  for  a 
dime,  and  was  thus  supplied  with  a  supper  and 
breakfast.  Twelve  hours  of  unbroken  sleep  fell 
to  me  that  night,  and  in  the  cool  of  a  threatening 
morning  I  set  out  to  find  work.  The  scaffolding 
about  a  brick  building  in  process  of  erection 
drew  my  attention,  and  I  applied  for  a  job  as  a 
hod-carrier,  but  found  no  demand  there  for  fur- 
ther unskilled  labor.  The  boss  in  charge  re- 


A  HIRED  MAN  AT  AN   ASYLUM          111 

fused  me  with  some  show  of  petulance,  as  though 
annoyed  by  repeated  appeals.  He  was  not  more 
cheerful,  but  was  politely  communicative  enough 
when  I  asked  after  the  likelihood  of  my  finding 
work  in  the  town.  "  There  is  no  business  doing," 
he  said.  "The  bottom  has  fallen  out  of  this 
place.  There's  two  men  looking  for  every  job 
here,  and  my  advice  to  you  is  to  go  somewhere 
else." 

At  the  head  of  the  street  I  came  upon  the  foun- 
dation work  of  another  building,  which,  I  learned, 
was  to  be  an  armory.  Here  the  boss  instantly 
offered  me  a  job,  if  I  could  lay  brick  or  do  the 
work  of  a  mason,  but  of  unskilled  labor  he  said 
that  he  had  an  abundant  supply.  "  But  yonder," 
he  added,  "  is  the  Asylum,  and  much  work  is  in 
progress  on  the  grounds,  and  there,  surely,  is 
your  best  chance  of  employment." 

The  Asylum  was  a  State  Homoeopathic  Insti- 
tution for  the  Insane.  I  could  see  the  large 
brick  buildings  on  the  highest  area  of  spacious 
grounds,  which  spread  away  in  easy  undulations, 
with  their  natural  beauty  heightened  by  the 
tasteful  work  of  a  landscape  gardener. 

Near  the  entrance  to  the  grounds  I  came  upon 
a  large  force  of  laborers  digging  a  ditch  for  a 
water-main.  The  boss  refused  me  a  place,  but 
not  without  evident  regret  at  the  necessity,  and 


112  THE  WORKERS 

he  was  at  pains  to  explain  to  me  that,  already 
on  that  morning,  he  had  been  obliged  to  turn 
away  half  a  dozen  men. 

It  was  with  no  great  expectation  of  success  at 
finding  work  there  that  I  began  walking  some- 
what aimlessly  through  the  Asylum  grounds. 
The  first  person  whom  I  met  was  an  old  Irish 
gardener.  He  painfully  stood  erect  as  I  ques- 
tioned him  as  to  whom  I  should  apply  for  a 
job,  and  supported  himself  with  one  hand  on 
my  shoulder,  while  he  told  me  of  the  medical 
superintendent,  and  the  overseer,  and  the  fore- 
man, who  are  in  charge  of  various  departments 
of  the  work.  Presently  his  face  brightened  with 
excitement  as  he  pointed  to  a  large  man  who 
was  walking  toward  one  of  the  buildings,  and  he 
pushed  me  in  his  direction  with  an  eager  injunc- 
tion to  apply  to  him,  for  he  was  the  overseer  of 
the  grounds. 

The  overseer  listened  to  my  request  and  read 

in  silence  my  reference  from  the  " House," 

and  looked  me  over  for  a  moment,  and  then 
abruptly  ordered  me  to  report  at  seven  o'clock 
on  the  next  morning,  adding,  as  he  disappeared 
within  the  building,  that  he  was  paying  his  men 
a  dollar  and  a  half  a  day. 

The  old  Irish  gardener  showed  the  heartiest 
pleasure  at  my  success,  and  directed  me  to  a 


A  HIRED   MAN   AT  AN   ASYLUM  113 

boarding-house  near  the  Asylum  grounds,  where 
I  was  soon  settled,  and  where  at  noon  I  ate  a 
memorable  dinner,  the  first  square  meal  for 
thirty-six  hours,  and  the  first  one  which  had 
about  it  the  elements  of  decent  comfort  since  I 
left  Mrs.  Flaherty's  table. 

At  seven  o'clock  on  the  next  morning  I  was 
one  of  a  gang  of  twenty  laborers  who  were  dig- 
ging a  sewer-ditch.  The  ditch  had  passed  the 
farther  edge  of  a  meadow,  and  must  cut  its  way 
through  the  field  to  the  Asylum  buildings,  two 
hundred  yards  beyond.  Its  course  was  marked 
by  a  straight  cut  through  the  sod  which  was  to 
furnish  us  a  guide.  Some  of  the  men  took  their 
former  places  in  unfinished  portions  of  the  work, 
and  the  rest  of  us  fell  apart,  leaving  intervals  of 
about  three  yards  from  man  to  man.  With  the 
cut  as  a  guide,  and  with  the  single  instruction  to 
keep  the  ditch  two  feet  wide,  we  began  to  wield 
our  picks  and  shovels.  A  thick,  unmoving  fog 
lay  damp  upon  the  meadow,  already  saturated 
with  dew.  The  sun-rays,  gathering  penetrating 
power  as  they  pierced  the  fog,  were  soon  pro- 
ducing the  effect  of  prickly  heat.  This  atmos- 
phere, surcharged  with  moisture  and  lifeless  in 
its  sluggish  weight,  yet  quick  with  stinging  heat, 
was  a  medium  in  which  the  actual  work  done 
was  out  of  proportion  to  its  cost  in  potential  en- 
8 


114  THE   WORKERS 

ergy.  In  the  forceful  Irishism  of  one  of  the  la- 
borers :  "  It  was  a  muggy  morning,  and  a  man 
must  do  his  work  twice  over  to  get  it  done." 

By  dint  of  strenuous  industry  and  careful  im- 
itation of  the  methods  of  the  other  men,  I  man- 
aged to  keep  pace  with  them.  I  saw  from  the 
first  that  the  work  would  be  hard ;  and  in  point 
of  severity  it  proved  all  that  I  expected,  and 
more.  To  ply  a  pick  and  urge  a  shovel  for  five 
continuous  hours  calls  for  endurance.  Down 
sweeps  your  pick  with  a  mighty  stroke  upon 
what  appears  yielding,  presentable  earth,  only  to 
come  into  contact  with  a  rock  concealed  just  be- 
low the  surface,  a  contact  which  sends  a  violent 
jar  through  all  your  frame,  causing  vibrations 
which  end  in  the  sensation  of  an  electric  shock 
at  your  finger-tips.  A  few  repetitions  of  this  ex- 
perience are  distinctly  disheartening  in  effect. 
Besides,  the  sun  has  cleared  the  fog,  and  is 
shining  full  upon  us  through  the  still  air.  The 
trench  is  well  below  the  surface,  now,  and  we 
work  with  the  sun  beating  on  our  aching  backs, 
and  our  heads  buried  in  the  ditch,  where  we 
breathed  the  hot  air  heavy  with  the  smell  of 
fresh  soil,  and  the  sweat  drips  from  our  faces 
upon  the  damp  clay. 

By  nine  o'clock  what  strength  and  courage 
I  have  left  seem  oozing  from  every  pore.  The 


A  HIRED   MAN   AT  AN   ASYLUM  115 

demoralization  is  complete,  and  I  know  that  only 
"the  shame  of  open  shame"  holds  me  to  my 
work.  I  dig  mechanically  on  through  another 
sluggish  hour  of  torment ;  and  then  I  come  to, 
and  find  myself  breathing  deeply,  with  long  reg- 
ular breaths,  in  the  miracle  of  "  second  wind," 
with  fresh  energy  flowing  like  a  stream  of  new 
life  through  my  body. 

Through  all  the  working  hours  of  the  day  the 
foreman  sat  upon  a  pile  of  tools  silently  watch- 
ing us  at  the  job.  Now  and  then  he  politely 
urged  that  the  ditch  be  kept  not  less  than  two 
feet  wide,  and  nothing  could  have  been  further 
from  his  manner  and  speech  than  any  approach 
to  abusing  the  men.  It  was  his  evident  pur- 
pose to  treat  us  well,  but  the  act  of  his  over- 
sight, under  the  conditions  of  our  employment, 
involved  a  practical  wasting  of  his  day,  and  cast 
upon  us  the  suspicion  of  dishonesty. 

On  the  next  morning,  which  was  Saturday,  the 
foreman  sent  me  down  the  ditch,  where  the  pipe 
was  already  laid,  and  ordered  me,  with  two  other 
men,  to  fill  in  the  earth.  Like  a  line  of  earth- 
works lay  the  "  stubborn  glebe "  above  the 
trench.  The  work  of  shovelling  it  back  into 
place  seemed  easy  at  first,  and  was  easy,  as  com- 
pared with  the  digging ;  but  the  wet,  cohesive 
clay  that  lined  the  ditch's  brink  yielded  only 


116  THE  WORKERS 

to  the  pressure  of  a  compulsion  very  persist- 
ently applied.  "We  quit  on  that  evening  at  five 
o'clock,  with  a  full  day's  pay  for  nine  hours' 
work. 

The  foreman  met  me  on  Monday  morning 
with  an  order  for  yet  another  change.  At  the 
barn  I  should  find  "  Hunt,"  he  said,  and  I  was 
to  report  to  him  as  his  "  help."  Hunt  proved 
to  be  a  good-looking,  taciturn  teamster,  who  had 
just  hitched  his  horses  to  his  "  truck,"  and  he 
told  me  to  get  aboard.  The  "  truck  "  was  a 
heavy  four-wheeled  vehicle  without  a  box,  but 
with,  instead,  a  stout  platform  suspended  from 
the  axle-trees,  and  resting  but  a  few  inches 
from  the  ground.  Standing  upon  this  we  drove 
all  day  from  point  to  point  about  the  grounds, 
attending  to  manifold  needs. 

We  had  first  to  cart  the  milk-cans  from  the 
dairy  to  the  kitchen.  This  errand  took  us  to 
the  rear  of  the  Asylum  buildings,  where  the  en- 
tries open  upon  a  series  of  quadrangular  courts. 
Then  from  entry  to  entry  we  drove,  gathering 
up  great  bags  of  soiled  clothes,  which  lay  in 
heaps  about  the  doors,  and  we  carted  these  to 
the  laundry.  Then  back  to  the  kitchen  we 
went,  and  took  on  a  load  of  huge  cans  filled  with 
swill,  and  transferred  them  to  a  large  pig-sty 
at  the  edge  of  the  wood,  below  the  meadow,  and 


A  HIRED  MAN  AT  AN  ASYLUM          117 

there  emptied  their  contents  into  hogsheads, 
from  which,  at  stated  hours,  the  swill  is  baled 
out  to  the  loud-squealing  herd  within.  Again 
we  made  the  round  of  the  entries,  this  time  to 
gather  up  the  waste  barrels  which  stood  full  of 
ashes,  and  the  results  of  the  morning's  sweep- 
ing; and  having  emptied  these,  we  replaced 
them  for  a  fresh  supply.  Then  we  drove  to  the 
garden,  and  carted  from  that  quarter  to  the 
kitchen  several  loads  of  vegetables. 

The  afternoon  was  consumed  in  supplying  the 
demand  for  ice.  Embedded  in  a  mass  of  hay 
in  the  ice-house,  the  ice  must  first  be  uncovered, 
and  the  cakes,  frozen  together,  must  be  pried 
apart  with  a  crowbar  and  then  dragged  over  the 
melting  surface  to  the  door,  and  finally  loaded 
upon  the  truck. 

We  first  carted  it  to  the  barn-yard,  where  we 
washed  it  by  playing  water  over  it  with  a  hose, 
and  then  to  the  kitchen  wing,  where  we  chopped 
it  into  smaller  pieces  and  threw  these  into  open- 
ings which  communicated  with  the  large  refrig- 
erators inside.  Again  and  again  was  this  proc- 
ess repeated,  until  an  adequate  supply  had  been 
furnished,  and  then  there  remained  before  six 
o'clock  time  enough  to  cart  to  the  pigs  their 
evening  meal  from  the  kitchen. 

With  slight  changes  in  detail,  this  remained 


118  THE   WORKERS 

the  order  of  our  work  through  the  few  days  of 
my  stay.  I  held  the  job  long  enough  to  find 
myself  ensconced  at  the  Asylum,  and  then  I  told 
the  foreman  that  I  wished  to  go.  He  looked  at 
me  in  some  surprise,  and  began  to  argue  the 
point.  "You'd  better  stay  by  your  job,"  he 
said.  "It  is  not  the  best  work,  but  we'll  find 
better  for  you  before  long."  I  thanked  him 
heartily,  and  told  him  I  was  interested  to  learn 
that,  but  that  I  felt  obliged  to  go.  He  shook 
hands  with  me,  and  cordially  wished  me  luck, 
and  told  me  to  apply  to  him  for  work  if  I  hap- 
pened again  in  those  parts,  and  added  that  I 
could  get  my  wages  by  calling  at  the  office  on 
the  next  afternoon,  which  was  the  regular  pay- 
day. 

A  free  day  was  highly  useful  now,  for  my 
clothes  and  boots  were  seriously  in  need  of  re- 
pair. The  pack  contained  the  means  of  much 
mending,  and  by  dinner-time  my  coat  and  trou- 
sers were  patched,  and  my  stockings  were  stoutly 
darned.  But  the  boots  were  beyond  me.  Al- 
ready they  had  cost  me  dear,  for  a  dollar,  the 
earnings  of  four  days  as  a  porter,  had  gone  for 
a  pair  of  new  soles,  and  now  another  outlay, 
enormous  in  its  relation  to  my  means,  was  an 
imperative  necessity. 

I  had  made  an  appointment  with  a  cobbler  for 


A  HIRED  MAtf  AT  AN  ASYLUM  119 

an  early  hour  in  the  afternoon,  precisely  as  one 
would  with  a  dentist ;  for  while  he  was  at  work 
on  my  only  pair  of  boots,  I  had  to  sit  by  in  my 
stocking  feet.  Secretly  I  welcomed  the  neces- 
sity, in  spite  of  its  calamitous  cost.  I  could 
take  a  book  with  me,  and  read  with  a  clear  con- 
science. The  cobbler  was  smoking  his  after- 
dinner  cigar  when  I  entered  his  shop.  He  was 
little  inclined  to  talk  ;  and  when  he  had  finished 
his  smoke  he  picked  up  a  boot,  and  bent  over  it 
with  an  air  of  absorption.  I  was  soon  lost  in 
my  book. 

The  work  was  nearly  done  when  some  move- 
ment of  his  drew  my  attention  to  the  cobbler. 
I  had  been  struck  by  his  appearance,  and  now 
my  interest  deepened.  Away  from  his  bench  it 
would  not  have  occurred  to  one  to  assign  him  to 
that  calling.  He  was  an  old  man,  whose  mus- 
cular figure  had  acquired  a  stoop  at  the  shoul- 
ders like  that  of  some  seasoned  scholar.  His 
features  were  clean-cut  and  strong.  His  blue 
eyes  had  a  look  of  much  shrewdness  and  force. 
There  were  deep  lines  about  his  mouth  and  in 
his  forehead,  which  spoke  of  masterful  conflict 
in  life.  Meeting  him  in  the  dress  of  a  gentle- 
man, you  would  have  said  that  he  was  a  public 
man  of  some  distinction,  and  with  close  acquaint- 
ance with  affairs.  In  reality,  he  had  sat  for  fifty 


120  THE  WORKERS 

years  upon  that  bench.  He  was  growing  com- 
municative now ;  and  from  his  personal  history 
I  tried  to  divert  him  to  his  views  of  life,  think- 
ing that  I  must  have  found  a  philosopher  in  a 
man  whose  opportunities  for  reflection  had  been 
so  great.  But  his  talk  was  flowing  freely,  and 
would  take  its  own  course,  careless  of  my  prompt- 
ings. I  settled  myself  to  listen,  and  my  inter- 
ested attention  seemed  to  fire  him  with  new  zest. 
From  personal  narrative  it  was  an  easy  step  -to 
events  of  our  national  history,  and  he  warmed 
to  these  under  the  inspiration  of  the  life  of  some 
great  man  connected  with  each.  General  Scott 
was  his  first  hero ;  and  touching  upon  details  of 
his  history,  which  were  wholly  unknown  to  me, 
he  pictured  the  inborn,  warlike  spirit  of  the  man 
with  amazing  appreciation,  and  finally  quoted 
the  judgment  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington,  who, 
he  said,  had  declared  of  Scott  that,  "  as  a  gen- 
eral, he  stood  without  a  superior."  Here  he 
paused  for  a  moment  to  explain  that  the  Duke 
of  Wellington  was  a  personage  of  exceptional 
military  experience,  whose  judgments  in  such 
matters  were  entitled  to  the  highest  respect. 

The  Civil  War  and  Mr.  Lincoln  as  the  chief 
figure  of  those  troublous  times  next  inspired 
him.  It  was  with  no  mean  insight  into  the  is- 
sues involved  that  he  glowed  with  the  thought 


A  HIRED   MAN   AT  AN   ASYLUM  121 

of  a  constitutional  question  grown  to  sharp  na- 
tional conflict,  and  settled  at  infinite  cost,  and 
transmitted  as  a  most  sacred  trust,  to  be  guard- 
ed with  eternal  vigilance.  But  the  climax  was 
reached  when  he  turned  back  on  his  course,  and 
began  afresh,  with  the  Father  of  his  Country  as 
his  theme.  The  incident  of  the  cherry-tree  was 
repeated  with  sublime  faith,  and  with  highly 
dramatic  effect.  Encouraged  by  his  success  and 
my  absorbed  attention,  he  next  recounted  the 
events  of  that  fateful  June  morning  when  the 
allied  American  and  British  forces  were  nearing 
Fort  Duquesne.  With  keenest  appreciation  of 
the  fatal  irony  of  it,  he  repeated  again  and  again 
his  own  version  of  the  reply  made  to  the  warn- 
ing of  young  Washington  by  General  Braddock : 
"  You  young  buckskin !  you  teach  a  British  offi- 
cer how  to  fight  ?  " 

A  chivalric  spirit  led  him  now  to  speak  of 
"  Lady  Washington."  This  moved  him  most  of 
all,  and  when  he  declared  that  he  would  repeat 
for  me  some  lines  composed  by  her,  which  he 
had  learned  by  heart  as  a  boy,  his  emotions 
were  almost  beyond  control.  His  job  was  fin- 
ished now,  and  he  drew  himself  up,  and  made  a 
strong  effort  to  modulate  his  voice,  which  was 
trembling  with  feeling.  The  lines  had  an 
evident  magic  for  him,  and  he  repeated  them 


122  THE  WORKERS 

with,  great  throbs  of  emotion,  while  his  eyes 
grew  dim : 

Saw  ye  my  hero  V 
Saw  ye  my  hero  ? 

I  saw  not  your  hero  ; 

But  I'm  told  he's  in  the  van, 

When  the  battle  just  began, 

And  he  stays  to  take  care  of  his  men. 

Oh  ye  gods !     I  give  you  my  charge 

To  protect  my  hero,  George, 

And  return  him  safe  home  to  my  arms. 

Then,  bending  toward  me,  he  placed  a  trem- 
bling hand  on  my  knee  ;  and  looking  dimly  into 
my  eyes,  he  said,  in  husky  tones :  "  And  they 
did,  didn't  they  /?  "  I  assented  earnestly, 
charmed  by  his  sincerity  and  enthusiasm,  only 
hopeful  that  there  was  some  mistake  in  the  un- 
expected glimpse  of  Lady  Washington  in  the 
character  of  a  poet,  and  like  my  friend  strug- 
gling with  feeling  that  I  found  it  hard  to  sup- 
press, and  which  expressed,  would  have  been 
sadly  out  of  harmony  with  the  scriptural  injunc- 
tion to  "  weep  with  them  that  weep." 

There  was  a  charm  in  the  old  cobbler's  har- 
angue, which  I  felt  for  long.  Even  his  views  of 
life  seemed  to  appear  in  these  crude  enthusiasms 
upon  general  themes.  There  was  a  note  of  op- 


A  HIRED  MAN  AT  AN   ASYLUM          123 

timism  which  one  could  not  fail  to  catch,  and  to 
respect  in  a  man  who,  for  fifty  years,  had  hon- 
estly earned  his  living  on  a  cobbler's  bench. 
His  sense  of  proprietorship  in  his  country,  and 
of  natural  right  to  high  personal  pride  in  her 
history,  conveyed  themselves  to  you  as  strong 
convictions,  and  you  understood  something  of 
the  power  which  dwells  in  a  people  who  feel 
thus  toward  their  country,  and  who  share  in  her 
control. 

An  hour  later  I  was  at  the  Asylum  on  the  er- 
rand of  getting  my  pay.  I  had  anticipated  the 
appointed  time  by  a  few  minutes,  and  was  the 
first  of  the  workmen  in  the  office.  The  clerk 
was  in  his  place,  however ;  and  my  appearance, 
hat  in  hand,  furnished  him  with  the  signal  for 
drawing  from  his  desk  the  receipt-forms,  upon 
which  the  men  acknowledge  the  payments  by 
their  signatures.  In  the  bustle  of  the  business 
just  beginning,  the  clerk  turned  upon  me  and 
asked,  somewhat  brusquely,  if  I  could  write  my 
name,  or  whether  he  should  write  it  for  me,  and 
I  affix  my  mark.  So  unexpected  was  the  ques- 
tion, that  I  was  conscious  at  first  of  some  bewil- 
derment, and  then  of  a  rising  resentment  against 
the  fact  that  such  a  question  should  be  put  to 
an  American  workman.  I  said  that  I  had  ac- 
quired the  habit  of  signing  my  own  name  when 


124  THE   WORKERS 

necessary  ;  but  I  might  have  spared  myself  that 
folly,  for  the  clerk  hastened  to  explain  with  the 
kindest  consideration  that,  of  all  the  laborers 
whom  he  habitually  pays  off,  scarcely  half  can 
write ;  "  although,"  he  added,  with  an  admirable 
touch  of  fairness,  "  a  very  small  proportion  of 
the  illiterate  are  native-born  Americans."  I  am 
afraid  that  my  resentment  had  its  source  in  a 
grotesquely  foolish  feeling.  I  have  been  mis- 
taken for  a  drunkard,  and  a  detective,  and  a  dis- 
reputable double  of  myself,  and  have  been  made 
a  bogey  of  to  frighten  children  into  obedience 
withal,  but  not  once,  so  far  as  I  know,  have  I 
been  taken  for  a  gentleman.  And  if  the  truth 
must  be  told,  I  fear  that  the  very  success  of  my 
disguise  is  somewhat  chagrinning  at  times. 

There  was  no  wrench  on  the  next  morning  in 
parting  with  the  family  with  whom  I  boarded, 
unless  my  landlady  shared  my  regret  at  leaving. 
She  was  a  meek  little  woman  who  slaved  hero- 
ically at  household  work  to  support  her  daugh- 
ter, who  studied  stenography  and  typewriting, 
and  her  idle  husband,  who  led  the  life  of  a 
professional  invalid.  He  had  tried  upon  me 
highly  colored  tales  of  his  career  as  a  soldier, 
and  of  what  he  would  have  done  in  life  but  for 
his  ill-health,  tales  which  I  soon  learned  to  in- 
terrupt with  small  services  to  his  wife,  and  he 


A  HIRED   MAN  AT  AN   ASYLUM 

gave  me  up  as  hopelessly  unsympathetic.  A 
baseball  game  on  the  Asylum  grounds  attracted 
a  large  crowd  one  afternoon  ;  and  as  Hunt  and 
I  drove  past  on  an  errand,  I  caught  sight  of  the 
ex-soldier,  who,  at  his  home,  was  too  great  a  suf- 
ferer to  contribute  even  a  helping  hand  at  the 
housework  toward  his  own  support,  but  who 
here  was  dancing  in  vigor  of  delight  over  a  two- 
base  hit. 

It  was  clear  that  a  rate  of  progress  which  had 
carried  me  not  even  so  far  as  the  border  line  of 
Pennsylvania,  during  nearly  two  months,  would 
require  a  considerable  portion  of  a  lifetime  in 
which  to  accomplish  the  three  thousand  miles 
before  me.  I  resolved  upon  more  energetic 
tramping  as  a  wiser  policy  for,  at  least,  the  im- 
mediate future. 

A  rough  plan  was  soon  formed.  I  had  saved 
nearly  six  dollars.  It  was  Wednesday  morning. 
I  would  give  three  days  to  uninterrupted  walk, 
and  by  Friday  evening  I  should  reach  Wilkes- 
barre.  The  whole  of  Saturday,  if  so  much  time 
were  needed,  could  then  be  given  to  a  search  for 
employment ;  and  the  rest  of  Sunday  would  put 
me  in  trim  to  begin  on  Monday  morning  the 
work  which  would  provide  in  a  few  days  for 
present  needs,  and  furnish  a  balance  with  which 
to  begin  the  tramp  once  more. 


126  THE   WORKERS 

At  an  early  hour  I  was  upon  the  high-road 
which  leads  to  Port  Jervis.  The  day  was  a  per- 
fect type  of  the  best  season  of  our  northern  cli- 
mate, cloudless  but  for  a  fleecy  embankment 
behind  the  purple  hills  to  the  north,  flooded 
with  a  glorious  light  touched  with  grateful 
warmth,  and  which  revealed  with  articulate  dis- 
tinctness every  visible  object  in  the  crystal-clear 
air — an  air  so  pure  and  cool  that  it  spurred  you 
to  your  quickest  step,  and  sent  bounding  through 
you  a  glad  delight  in  breath  and  life. 

In  all  the  landscape  was  the  richness  of  color 
and  the  vividness  of  a  transfigured  world.  An 
early  frost  had  touched  the  foliage ;  the  leaves 
of  the  hickory  -  trees  and  elms  were  rustling 
crisply  at  their  tips,  and  the  sumach  deepened 
into  a  crimson  that  matched  the  color  of  its 
clustered  seeds,  while  the  oaks  and  maples 
maintained  the  dark  luxuriance  of  their  summer 
leafage,  boastful  of  a  hardihood  which  would 
succumb  only  to  the  keener  cold  of  the  later 
autumn. 

Up  hill  and  down  dale  my  road  led  me,  where 
substantial  farm-houses,  and  enormous  barns, 
and  fields  of  standing  corn,  and  herds  of  cattle 
in  the  pasture-lands,  all  indicated  the  necessa- 
ries and  even  the  comforts  of  life  in  rich  abun- 
dance, and  emphasized  the  wonder  that  from 


A   HIRED   MAN   AT  AN   ASYLUM  127 

such  surroundings  should  come  the  recruits  who 
ceaselessly  throng  our  crowded  towns. 

A  few  miles  farther  on  the  whole  topography 
of  the  country  changed.  I  had  passed  through 
the  village  of  Otisville  and  was  walking  in  the 
direction  of  Huguenot  when  my  way  carried  me 
to  a  hillside  from  which  I  could  see  the  long 
stretch  of  a  valley,  reaching  far  to  the  westward, 
and  lined  on  both  sides,  with  almost  artificial 
regularity,  by  ranges  of  hills,  which  rose  sharply 
from  the  plain  below.  Through  a  break  at  the 
north  the  Delaware  flows,  and,  crossing  the 
plain-like  valley,  disappears  among  the  southern 
hills,  while  the  valley  itself,  in  almost  unbroken 
symmetry,  reaches  on  to  the  west. 

At  the  foot  of  the  northern  range,  and  on  the 
eastern  bank  of  the  river,  is  the  town  of  Port 
Jervis.  Its  outer  streets  are  the  light,  airy 
thoroughfares  of  the  usual  American  town,  faced 
by  small  wooden  cottages,  each  with  its  plot  of 
ground  devoted  in  front  to  a  few  square  yards  of 
turf,  and  carefully  economized  behind  the  house 
for  the  purpose  of  supporting  fruit-trees  and 
providing  a  vegetable  garden. 

The  great  number  of  these  individual  homes, 
as  indicating  the  manner  of  life  of  multitudes  of 
the  working  classes  in  provincial  towns,  seemed 
to  me  to  mark  a  conspicuous  absence  of  crowded 


128  THE  WORKERS 

tenement  living ;  and  on  its  positive  side  to  in- 
dicate at  least  the  possibility  of  wholesome  fam- 
ily life  and  of  much  home  comfort.  Certainly 
my  experience  at  Highland  Falls  and  at  Middle- 
town  confirms  this  impression.  In  each  of  those 
cases  the  people  with  whom  I  stayed  owned* 
their  home  and  the  plot  of  land  about  it,  which 
contributed  thriftily  toward  the  family  support. 
The  houses  were  ephemeral  wooden  cottages, 
done  in  the  degrading  ugliness  inspired  by  the 
Queen  Anne  revival,  and  furnished  in  a  taste 
even  more  florid,  and  they  were  not  overclean. 
And  yet  they  were  comfortable  homes,  in  which 
we  fared  handsomely,  eating  meat  three  times  a 
day,  and  varieties  of  vegetables  and  admirable 
home-made  bread,  and  knew  no  stint  of  sugar 
or  butter,  and  slept  in  good  beds  in  not  too 
crowded  rooms  in  an  upper  story. 

All  about  me  here,  and  reaching  down  the 
long  vistas  of  communicating  streets,  were  the 
same  external  conditions,  until  I  entered  the 
closely  built  up  "  brick  blocks"  of  the  business 
quarter  of  the  town.  I  could  but  think  how  char- 
acteristic of  our  smaller  cities  is  this  separate 
individual  home-life  of  the  wage-earning  classes, 
and  how  increasingly  are  the  improved  means 
of  transportation  rendering  like  surroundings 
possible  for  the  workmen  of  the  larger  towns. 


A  HIRED   MAN   AT  AN   ASYLUM  129 

Having  crossed  the  Delaware  Elver,  about 
four  o'clock  I  began  a  walk  through  a  region  no 
less  beautiful  than  that  through  which  I  had 
passed  in  the  morning.  My  way  lay  in  the  val- 
ley, directly  under  the  steep  hills  that  wall  it  in 
on  the  north.  Their  densely  wooded  sides  cast 
deep  shadows  obliquely  across  the  road,  and  in 
this  grateful  shade  I  walked  on,  listening  to  the 
songs  of  birds  and  the  murmur  of  mountain- 
streams,  and  the  cooling  sound  of  spray  splash- 
ing from  ledge  to  ledge  of  moss-grown  rocks. 

At  sunset  I  entered  the  village  of  Milford, 
which  nestles  securely  at  the  foot  of  the  moun- 
tains of  Pike  County,  a  beautiful  village  of  wide, 
well-shaded  streets,  where  there  was  little  to 
mar  the  elegant  simplicity  of  dignified  country 
homes,  untouched  by  harrowing  attempts  at  the 
fantastic. 

By  eight  o'clock  I  was  fast  asleep  in  a  work- 
men's boarding-house,  and  at  sunrise  on  the 
next  morning  I  was  on  the  road  which  turns 
sharply  up  the  mountain-side.  A  dense  mist 
lay  upon  the  valley,  but  my  way  soon  led  me  up 
to  the  freer  air,  until,  upon  the  summit  of  a 
ridge,  I  reached  the  clear  sunshine,  and  could 
see  the  emerging  ranges  of  hills  to  the  east  and 
south  and  the  white  mist  resting  motionless  on 
the  valley  below. 
9 


130  THE  WORKERS 

Up  and  up  I  climbed  into  higher  altitudes. 
Each  elevation  appeared,  as  I  approached  it,  the 
topmost  crest  of  the  mountain,  and  yet  I  gained 
it  only  to  find  another  rough  steep  beyond. 

There  could  scarcely  have  been  a  sharper  con- 
trast with  the  journey  of  the  previous  day.  The 
graceful  undulations  of  rich  farm -lands  and  the 
broad  plain  of  the  Huguenot  flats,  checkered 
with  field  and  forest  and  pasture,  and  traversed 
by  well-kept  roads,  and  dotted  over  with  the 
buildings  of  prosperous  farms  and  thriving  vil- 
lages, had  given  place,  in  the  panorama  of  my 
journey,  to  rugged  mountains,  steep  and  densely 
wooded,  except  where,  on  some  less  hopeless  site 
at  the  very  margin  of  cultivation,  a  settler  had 
cleared  the  land  and  begun  a  conflict  with  the 
stony  soil  in  an  almost  desperate  struggle  for  a 
living.  Here  were  mountain-roads  that  went 
from  bad  to  worse,  until,  before  I  had  crossed 
the  range,  my  way  degenerated  into  a  narrow, 
rocky  trail,  overgrown  with  weeds,  and  along 
which  I  walked  for  a  stretch  of  six  or  eight 
miles  without  passing  a  dwelling. 

That  was  in  the  afternoon.  At  a  little  before 
twelve  o'clock  I  had  come  to  Shohola  Falls. 
There,  in  a  "  hollow  "  on  the  bank  of  a  mountain- 
stream,  stood  a  saw-mill,  surrounded  by  piles  of 
bleaching  boards  and  a  few  rough,  unpainted 


A  HIRED   MAN   AT   AN   ASYLUM          131 

cottages.  Through  the  open  door  of  a  shop  I 
caught  sight  of  an  old  carpenter  bending  over 
his  bench.  He  entered  very  readily  into  direc- 
tions about  the  way  and  told  me  that  I  had  but 
to  follow  a  direct  road  to  Kimble,  and  from 
there  there  was  no  difficulty  in  the  way  to  Taf- 
ton,  which,  he  said,  was  as  far  as  I  could  get 
that  day.  Then,  with  an  eye  on  my  pack,  he 
asked  pointedly  what  I  was  peddling.  The  for- 
gotten magazines  recurred  to  me  and  I  opened 
my  pack  and  handed  him  a  copy.  The  frequent 
change  of  subject  and  the  variety  of  illustration 
fixed  for  a  time  his  excited  attention. 

Half  a  score  of  young  children  now  crowded 
about  the  door,  and  edged  cautiously  into  the 
shop,  fixing  upon  me  eyes  wide  open  with  the 
hunger  of  curiosity.  They  were  all  barefooted 
and  ragged,  and  not  one  of  them  was  clean,  and 
at  a  single  glance  you  saw  that,  mountain-bred 
and  young  as  they  were,  there  was  no  whole- 
some color  in  their  faces,  and  that  the  very 
beauty  of  childhood  was  already  fading  before  a 
persistent  diet  from  the  frying-pan. 

The  old  carpenter  presently  turned  upon  me 
with  the  air  of  one  who  was  master  of  the  situ- 
ation. 

"Would  you  like  to  sell  some  of  them  books 
around  here?"  he  asked. 


132  THE  WORKERS 

I  told  him  that  I  should. 

"Well,  you're  a  stranger  here,  ain't  you?  " 

"  Yes." 

"Then  don't  you  try  it.  A  young  fellow  done 
this  place  out  of  more'n  fifty  dollars  last  spring, 
and  we're  kind  o'  careful  of  strangers  now." 

I  sat  on  the  door-step  to  rest,  and  invited  the 
children  to  look  at  the  pictures,  which  they  did, 
hesitatingly  at  first,  with  timid  advances,  in 
which  curiosity  struggled  with  their  fear  of  the 
unfamiliar.  But  they  grew  bolder  as  I  invented 
stories  to  match  the  illustrations,  and  presently 
they  were  all  nestling  about  me  in  the  ease  of 
absorbed  attention.  One  little  girl  of  four  or 
five,  who  had  eyed  me  at  first  with  an  anx- 
ious look  of  alarm,  now  stood  leaning  over  my 
shoulder  with  an  arm  about  my  neck,  and  her 
soft  brown  hair,  escaped  from  her  sun -bon- 
net, touching  my  face,  while  she  looked  down 
upon  the  pictures,  and  I  could  feel  her  breath 
quickening  as  the  story  neared  its  climax. 

I  pressed  on  presently,  and  the  children  ran 
by  my  side,  asking  for  yet  one  story  more,  and 
finally  calling  their  good-byes  and  waving  their 
hands  to  me  as  I  disappeared  around  a  curve  in 
the  road. 

A  few  miles  farther  on  I  came  to  a  lonely  farm- 
house, where  I  knocked  in  quest  of  a  dinner. 


A  HIRED   MAN  AT  AN  ASYLUM          133 

The  open  door  revealed  a  woman's  face,  so  sad 
and  worn,  so  full  of  care  and  of  weary  years  of 
slavish  drudgery,  that  quite  instinctively  I  be- 
gan to  apologize,  and  to  conceal  my  real  pur- 
pose in  aimless  inquiry  about  the  way. 

"I  do  not  know,"  she  said;  "but  won't  you 
come  in  ?  The  boys  will  soon  be  at  home  for 
dinner,  and  they  can  tell  you." 

Her  voice  was  soft  and  sweet,  and  her  man- 
ner so  reassuring  that  I  gladly  followed  her 
into  the  sitting-room,  where  she  introduced  me 
to  her  daughter,  a  slender,  dark  young  woman, 
who  sat  sewing  by  an  open  window. 

I  hastened  to  make  myself  known  as  a  work- 
man on  my  way  to  Wilkesbarre,  where  I  hoped 
to  get  employment,  and  I  told  them  of  my  en- 
counter with  the  carpenter  at  the  Falls.  They 
smiled  as  though  the  flavor  of  his  humor  was 
not  lost  to  them,  and  they  spoke  of  other  char- 
acters at  the  settlement  quite  as  odd  as  he. 

Both  women  were  dressed  in  the  plainest 
calico,  and  without  a  touch  of  ornament,  and  the 
house  was  poor ;  poor  to  the  verge  of  poverty  ; 
but  the  walls  were  free  from  chromoes  and 
worsted  mottoes,  and  showed,  instead,  a  few 
good  engravings,  and  the  rag-carpet  on  the  floor 
blent  in  accordant  colors,  and  curtains  hung 
neatly  at  the  windows. 


134  THE  WORKEKS 

'  Dinner  was  waiting,  and  presently  the  mother 
said  that  we  would  delay  it  no  longer  for  the 
boys.  We  sat  down  at  a  table  in  a  rough  shed 
which  opened  from  the  sitting-room.  A  spot- 
less cloth  covered  the  board,  and  the  service  was 
simple  and  tasteful,  and  there  was  the  uncom- 
mon luxury  of  napkins.  The  dinner  moved  with 
unembarrassed  ease.  We  talked  of  the  surround- 
ing country,  and  its  resemblance  to  other  re- 
gions, and  of  the  political  situation.  The  mother 
led  the  talk,  and  tactfully  guarded  it  from  any 
approach  to  silence  or  to  topics  too  intimate. 
Once,  however,  she  touched  lightly  upon  a 
former  home  in  a  prosperous  corner  of  another 
State,  and  instantly  I  felt  the  hint  of  some 
family  tragedy. 

And  now  her  two  sons  came  shuffling  in, 
rough  and  ruddy  from  their  work,  clean-cut, 
well-bred  young  fellows,  far  too  young  I  thought 
to  be  "hauling  logs,"  and  I  could  read  an  agony 
of  anxiety  in  their  mother's  face  as  she  watched 
them  wearily  take  their  seat  on  the  vacant  bench 
by  the  table.  They  had  been  left  in  the  care  of 
the  work  in  the  absence  of  their  father,  who  had 
gone  some  miles  to  a  neighboring  settlement, 
"  on  business,"  their  mother  added,  blushing 
deeply,  while  the  boys  looked  hard  at  their 
plates. 


A  HIKED   MAN   AT  AN  ASYLUM  135 

The  afternoon's  tramp  lay  through  the  wild- 
est part  of  that  wild  region.  From  Shohola 
Falls  to  Kimble  the  direct  road  is  one  which 
leads  straight  across  the  mountain,  and  is  almost 
unbroken,  and  seldom  used.  In  all  its  course  I 
passed  but  two  or  three  farms  ;  and  these  re- 
vealed a  pitiful  poverty,  in  the  wretched  hovels 
which  did  service  as  farm-houses  and  barns,  and, 
more  plainly,  if  possible,  in  the  squalor  of  little 
children  who  gaped  at  me  from  among  high 
weeds  behind  tottering  fences. 

On  I  went  for  miles,  over  a  road  so  lonely 
that  it  recalled  the  loneliness  of  the  sea,  and, 
like  the  sea,  the  sweep  of  heaving  mountains 
seemed  unbroken  in  a  boundless  monotony. 
And  then  the  landscape  had  in  it  the  beauty  and 
the  majesty  of  the  sea,  and  the  whispering  of 
the  wind  over  vast  fields  of  stunted  pines  and 
scrub  oaks  answered  to  the  wash  of  waves,  and 
bore  a  fragrance  and  freshness  to  match  with 
ocean  breezes. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  my  way  descended 
abruptly  by  a  more  frequented  road  in  the  di- 
rection of  Kimble.  Presently  I  could  see  a  rail- 
way and  a  canal,  and  I  felt  a  little,  I  fancied, 
as  an  explorer  must  upon  emerging,  once  more, 
into  the  region  of  the  explored. 

I  wished  to  know  the  distance  and  the  way  to 


136  THE  WOEKERS 

Tafton,  and  so  I  inquired  of  the  first  person 
whom  I  met.  She  was  a  milkmaid,  and  so 
picturesque  a  figure,  that  I  felt  a  pleasurable  ex- 
citement in  the  chance  of  a  word  with  her.  Her 
calico  skirt  was  tucked  up  a  little  at  one  side. 
Under  one  bare  arm  she  carried  a  milking-stool, 
and  a  bucket  in  the  other  hand.  Her  sun-bon- 
net had  fallen  from  her  head,  and  hung  like  a 
scholar's  hood  on  her  back.  The  sunlight  was 
playing  in  glory  about  her  face  and  in  her  abun- 
dant auburn  hair. 

My  excitement  suddenly  took  another  form ; 
for,  as  I  lifted  my  hat  in  apologetic  inquiry, 
there  fell  about  me  a  shower  of  oak-leaves,  which 
I  had  placed  in  the  crown  for  the  sake  of  added 
coolness. 

The  milkmaid  had  met  me  with  a  clear,  frank 
look  between  the  eyes ;  but  she  shrank  a  little 
now,  and  could  not  resist  a  startled  glance,  full 
of  questioning,  as  to  what  further  my  hat  might 
contain,  and  she  answered  me  more  with  the 
purpose,  I  fancy,  of  being  quickly  rid  of  a  wan- 
derer of  such  doubtful  mind,  than  of  adding  to 
his  information. 

The  walk  from  Kimble  to  Tafton,  I  presently 
found,  could  be  shortened  by  taking  a  path 
through  the  forest ;  and  I  was  soon  panting  up 
the  hillside,  grateful  for  the  long  twilight  which 


A   HIRED   MAN   AT  AN   ASYLUM  137 

promised  to  see  me  safe,  before  the  darkness,  to 
my  destination. 

On  the  way  I  fell  in  with  a  young  quarryman, 
whose  home  was  near  Tafton,  and  who  willingly 
became  my  guide.  He  was  only  sixteen,  but 
already  he  had  worked  for  four  years  at  his 
trade.  His  gaunt,  angular  body  showed  plainly 
the  marks  of  arrested  development,  when  the 
growth  of  the  boy  had  hardened  prematurely 
into  an  almost  deformed  figure  of  a  confirmed 
laborer. 

He  lunged  clumsily  beside  me,  and  was  in- 
clined to  be  taciturn  at  first;  but  he  warmed 
presently  to  readier  speech,  and  talked  frankly 
of  his  work  and  manner  of  life.  At  twelve  he 
had  been  taken  from  school  and  sent  to  the 
quarry  to  help  his  father  support  a  growing 
family.  And  then  his  days  had  settled  into  a 
ceaseless  round  of  hard  work,  from  which  there 
was  no  escape  for  him  until  he  should  be  twenty- 
one,  an  age  which  appeared  to  his  perception  at 
an  almost  infinite  distance. 

His  attitude  to  his  present  circumstances  was 
not  a  resentful  one.  He  seemed  to  think  it 
most  natural  that  he  should  help  in  the  family 
support ;  or,  rather,  no  other  possibility  seemed 
to  occur  to  him.  It  was  soon  apparent,  too,  that 
his  chiefest  hope  and  ambition,  with  reference 


138  THE   WORKERS 

to  his  ultimate  freedom  from  that  necessity,  were 
centred  in  a  possible  return  to  school  advan- 
tages. He  spoke  of  his  efforts  to  study  after 
work  hours,  and  of  the  hardness  of  such  a  course, 
and  owned  to  the  fear  of  insurmountable  difficul- 
ties in  the  future.  His  reticence  was  gone  now, 
and  he  was  speaking  with  hearty  freedom,  and 
with  his  eyes  all  alight  with  the  dream  of  his 
life.  I  told  him  something  of  the  increased  op- 
portunities of  education  for  men  who  must  make 
their  own  way,  and  of  how  many  men  I  had 
known  who  had  supported  themselves  through 
college. 

We  parted  at  the  edge  of  the  forest,  where  we 
reached  his  home,  a  frail  shell  of  a  shanty, 
standing  upon  stumps  of  felled  trees,  and  he 
was  welcomed  by  the  sight  of  his  mother,  chop- 
ping wood  at  the  roadside,  and  a  troop  of  ragged 
children  playing  about  the  open  door. 

At  nightfall,  on  the  next  evening,  I  entered 
Wilkesbarre,  but  I  got  so  far  only  by  virtue  of 
a  long  lift  in  a  farmer's  cart,  which  earned  me, 
by  a  stroke  of  great  good  fortune,  over  much  the 
longest  part  of  the  day's  journey. 

So  far  my  plan  had  been  carried  out.  It  was 
Friday  evening,  and  I  was  safe  in  Wilkesbarre, 
somewhat  worn  by  the  walk  of  rather  over  eighty 
miles,  and  with  an  increased  dislike  for  my  bur- 


A  HIRED  MAN   AT  AN   ASYLUM          139 

densome  pack,  but  with  every  prospect  of  being 
fit  for  work  so  soon  as  I  should  find  it.  My 
success  in  that  direction  had  been  so  uniform, 
that  instead  of  sleeping  in  the  open,  as  I  had 
done  on  the  night  before,  I  allowed  myself  the 
luxury  of  a  bed  in  a  cheap  boarding-house,  and 
a  supper  and  a  breakfast  at  its  table,  before  be- 
ginning my  search.  Further  good  fortune 
awaited  me,  for  Saturday  morning  lent  itself 
with  cheerful  brightness  to  the  enterprise.  At 
an  early  hour  I  stepped  out  into  a  busy  street  of 
the  city,  sore  and  stiff  with  walking,  but  high 
of  hope,  and  not  without  a  certain  elevation  of 
spirit,  which  might  have  warned  me  of  a  fall. 

Work  on  the  city  sewers  was  being  carried 
through  the  public  square.  I  found  the  con- 
tractor, and  applied  for  work  as  a  digger.  Very 
courteously  he  took  the  pains  to  explain  to  me 
that  he  was  obliged  to  keep  on  hand,  and  pay 
for  full  time,  a  force  of  men  far  larger  than  was 
demanded,  except  by  certain  exigencies,  and 
that  he  could  not  increase  their  number.  Not 
far  from  the  square  another  gang  of  workmen 
were  laying  the  curbstones  and  repairing  the 
street,  but  here  I  was  again  refused.  I  lifted 
my  eyes  to  the  site  of  a  stone  building  that  was 
nearing  completion,  and  there,  too,  no  added 
hands  were  needed. 


140  THE  WORKERS 

By  this  time  I  had  neared  the  post-office,  and 
I  found  letters  awaiting  me  there  which  claimed 
the  next  half  hour.  But  even  more  embarras- 
sing, as  a  check  to  further  search,  was  a  free 
reading-room,  which  now  invited  me  to  files  of 
New  York  newspapers,  in  which  I  knew  that  I 
should  find  details  of  recent  interesting  political 
developments  at  Eochester  and  Saratoga,  not 
to  mention  possible  fresh  complications  in  the 
more  exciting  game  of  politics  abroad.  I  went 
in,  and  like  Charles  Kingsley's  young  monk, 
Philemon,  who,  wandering  one  day  farther  than 
ever  before  from  the  monastery  in  the  desert, 
chanced  upon  the  ruins  of  an  old  Egyptian  tem- 
ple ;  and  mindful  of  a  warning  against  such  se- 
duction, yet  guiltily  charmed  by  the  rare  beauty 
of  the  frescoes,  prayed  aloud,  "  Lord,  turn  away 
mine  eyes,  lest  they  behold  vanity,"  but  looked, 
nevertheless — I  looked,  too,  and  I  read  on  until 
mounting  remorse  robbed  the  reading  of  all 
pleasure  and  drove  me  to  my  task  again. 

But  I  had  fallen  once ;  and,  by  a  sad  fatality, 
scarcely  had  I  renewed  the  search,  with  weak- 
ened power  of  resistance,  when  I  stumbled  upon 
a  fiercer  temptation  in  the  form  of  a  library, 
which  announced  in  plain  letters  its  freedom  to 
the  public  until  the  hour  of  nine  in  the  evening. 

Forgetful  of  my  character  as  a  workman; 


A   HIRED   MAN   AT  AN   ASYLUM  141 

miserably  callous  to  the  claim  of  duty  to  find 
employment,  if  possible;  and  in  any  case,  to 
live  honestly  the  life  which  I  had  assumed,  I 
entered  the  wide-open,  hospitable  doors,  and 
was  soon  lost  to  other  thought,  and  even  to 
the  sense  of  shame,  in  the  absorbing  interest 
of  favorite  books. 

In  the  lonely  tramp  across  the  mountains  of 
Pike  County  I  walked  sometimes  for  miles  with 
no  opportunity  of  quenching  a  growing  thirst, 
when  suddenly  I  came  upon  a  mountain-spring 
that  trickled  from  the  solid  rock,  and  formed  a 
little  pool  in  its  shade,  where  I  threw  myself  on 
the  ground,  and,  with  a  glorious  sense  of  relief, 
drank  deeply  of  its  cold  water.  The  analogy  is 
a  weak  one,  for  the  physical  relief  and  the  mo- 
mentary pleasure  but  faintly  suggest  the  pro- 
longed intellectual  delight,  after  two  months  of 
unslackened  thirst. 

Here  was  an  inexhaustible  supply,  and  there 
were  polite  librarians  who  responded  cheerfully 
to  your  slightest  wish ;  and,  best  of  all,  there 
was  an  inner  door  which  disclosed  a  reading- 
room,  where  perfect  quiet  reigned,  and  comfort- 
able chairs  invited  you  to  grateful  ease,  and 
shelves  on  shelves  of  books  were  free  to  your 
eager  hand. 

To  pass  from  one  writer  to  another,  among 


142  THE   WORKERS 

the  volumes  that  lay  on  the  table,  lingering 
over  long-loved  passages,  or  dipping  lightly  here 
and  there,  absorbing  pleasure  from  the  very 
touch  of  the  book  and  the  sight  of  the  well- 
printed  page,  held  by  the  charm  of  some  char- 
acteristic phrase,  and  finally  to  sink  into  the 
folds  of  an  easy-chair  with  a  store  of  books  with- 
in ready  reach — what  delight  can  equal  such  sat- 
isfaction of  a  craving  sense  ? 

There  through  the  livelong  day  I  sit,  and 
through  the  early  evening,  until  I  am  roused  by 
the  sound  of  slamming  shutters  which  is  the 
janitor's  signal  for  nine  o'clock,  the  hour  of  clos- 
ing for  the  night. 

Taking  my  hat  and  stick  I  walk  out  into  the 
gas-lit  street,  and  into  our  modern  world,  with 
its  artificialities  and  its  social  and  labor  prob- 
lems ;  and  I  remember  that  I  am  a  proletaire  out 
of  a  job,  and  that  with  shameless  neglect  of 
duty  I  have  been  idling  through  priceless  hours. 
Crestfallen,  I  hurry  to  my  boarding-house,  long- 
ing, like  any  conscious-stricken  inebriate,  to  lose 
remorse  in  sleep. 

As  I  walk  to  my  lodgings  a  certain  fellow-feel- 
ing warms  me  with  fresh  sympathy  for  my  kind. 
I  have  met  with  my  first  reverse,  not  a  serious 
one,  but  still  the  search  for  work  for  the  first 
time  in  my  experience  has  been  fruitless  through 


A   HIRED   MAN  AT   AN   ASYLUM  143 

most  of  a  morning.  Instead  of  persevering  in- 
dustriously, I  yield  weakly  to  the  desire  to  for- 
get my  present  lot,  and  the  duty  it  entails,  in 
the  intoxication  that  beckons  to  me  from  free 
books.  That  happens  to  be  my  temptation,  and 
I  fall. 

Another  workman  of  my  class,  in  precisely  my 
position,  encounters,  not  one  chance  temptation 
which  he  might  escape  by  taking  another  street, 
but  at  every  corner  open  doors  which  invite  him 
to  the  companionship  of  other  men,  who  will 
help  him  to  forget  his  discouragements  so  long 
as  his  savings  last.  And  as  we  are  both  turned 
into  the  street  at  night,  in  what  do  we  differ  as 
regards  our  moral  strength?  He  yielded  to  his 
temptation,  and  I  to  mine. 


CHAPTER  V 

A  FARM  HAND 

WlLLIAMSPORT,    INCOMING  COUNTY,  PA., 

Saturday,  3  October,  1891. 

FROM  Wilkesbarre  it  was  an  easy  day's  march 
to  the  village  of  Pleasant  Hill,  which  lies  in  the 
way  to  Willianisport.  The  only  notable  incident 
of  the  tramp  was  one  which  confirmed  me  in  an 
early  formed  policy.  I  have  avoided  railways, 
and  have  walked  in  preference  along  the  country 
roads,  as  affording  better  opportunities  of  inter 
course  with  people.  But  in  going  on  that  morn- 
ing from  Wilkesbarre  to  the  ferry  which  crossed 
the  river  to  Plymouth,  I  took  the  advice  of  a 
gate-keeper  at  a  railway  crossing  and  started 
down  the  track  on  a  long  trestle  as  a  short  cut 
to  the  ferry.  All  went  well  until  I  was  half  way 
over,  and  then  two  coal  trains  passed  simul- 
taneously in  opposite  directions,  and  I  hung  by 
my  hands  from  the  framework  at  one  side,  while 
the  engineer  and  fireman  on  the  locomotive 
nearest  me  laughed  heartily  at  the  figure  that 
I  cut,  with  the  side  of  each  car  grazing  my 
144 


A   FARM   HAND  145 

pack,  and  my  hold  on  the  railing  growing  visibly 
slacker. 

It  was  a  little  after  nightfall  when  I  reached 
the  tavern  at  Pleasant  Hill.  Of  my  wages  I  had 
fifty  cents  left.  I  questioned  the  proprietor  as 
to  the  demand  for  work  in  his  community.  He 
was  quite  encouraging.  Only  that  afternoon,  he 
said,  one  of  the  best  farmers  of  the  neighbor- 
hood had  been  inquiring  in  the  village  for  a  pos- 
sible man,  and  to  the  best  of  his  knowledge 
he  had  not  found  one.  I  said  that  I  should 
apply  at  his  farm  in  the  morning,  and  then 
I  broached  the  subject  of  entertainment.  We 
soon  struck  a  bargain  for  a  supper  and  break- 
fast, and  the  privilege  of  a  bed  on  the  hay; 
but  when,  after  supper,  I  asked  to  be  directed 
to  the  barn,  the  landlord  silently  led  the  way 
to  a  little  room  upstairs,  and  there  wished  me 
good-night. 

In  the  early  morning  he  pointed  out  to  me  the 
road  to  his  neighbor's  farm,  which  I  followed 
with  ready  success.  I  was  penniless  now,  and 
had  only  an  uncertain  chance  of  work.  And 
then,  if  the  farmer  should  ask  me,  I  should  be 
obliged  to  own  to  inexperience,  and  the  demand 
for  farm-hands  I  thought  must  be  limited,  at  a 
date  so  far  into  the  autumn.  But  the  morning 
was  exquisite,  and  the  buoyancy  that  it  bred  was 
10 


146  THE   WORKERS 

an  easy  match  for  misgivings,  so  that  it  was  with 
a  light  heart  that  I  turned  from  the  road  into 
a  lane  which  leads  to  the  house  of  the  farmer, 
whom  I  shall  call  Mr.  Hill. 

All  about  me  were  the  marks  of  thrift.  The 
fences  stood  straight  and  stout,  with  an  air  of 
lasting  security.  On  a  rising  ledge  above  the 
lane  was  the  farm-house,  a  small,  unpainted 
wooden  cottage,  bleached  to  the  rich,  deep  brown 
of  a  well-colored  meerschaum  pipe,  and  as  snug 
and  tight  as  a  pilot's  schooner.  Near  it  was  a 
summer-kitchen  that  seemed  fairly  to  glow  with 
conscious  pride  in  its  cleanness,  and  the  very 
foot-path  from  the  gate  to  the  cottage-door  was 
swept  like  a  threshing  floor. 

On  the  door-step  sat  a  girl  in  a  calico  dress  of 
delicate  pink,  with  a  dark  gingham  apron  con- 
cealing all  its  front.  She  was  shelling  peas  into 
a  milk-pan  which  rested  on  her  lap,  and  the 
morning  sunlight  was  in  her  flaxen  hair,  and 
showed  you  the  delicate  freshness  of  a  pink-and- 
white  complexion.  Sober  hazel  eyes  were  fixed 
on  me  as  I  walked  up  the  foot-path,  and  of  us  two 
I  was  the  embarrassed  one.  I  have  not  got  over 
a  certain  timidity  in  asking  for  work,  and  each 
request  is  a  sturdy  effort  of  the  will,  with  the 
rest  of  me  in  cowardly  revolt,  and  a  timid 
shrinking  much  in  evidence  I  fear. 


A  FARM  HAND  147 

"Is  this  Mr.  Hill's  farm?"  I  ask,  and  I 
know  that  I  am  blushing  deeply. 

"Yes,"  says  the  young  woman,  with  grave 
dignity  and  the  most  natural  self-possession  in 
the  world. 

"Is  he  at  home?"  I  am  sweating  freely 
now,  as  I  stand  with  my  hat  crushed  between 
my  hands,  and  the  pack  feeling  like  a  mountain 
on  my  back. 

"  He  is  down  at  the  pond  on  the  edge  of  the 
farm."  And  her  serious  eyes  follow  the  line  of 
the  long  lane  which  sinks  from  the  house  with 
the  downward  slope  of  the  land. 

With  her  permission  I  leave  the  pack  behind, 
and  then  follow  the  indicated  way.  The  barn  is 
on  my  right,  a  large,  unpainted  structure,  stained 
by  weather  to  as  dark  a  hue  as  the  house,  but 
there  are  no  loose  boards  about  it,  nor  any  rifts 
among  the  shingles,  and  the  doors  hang  true  on 
their  hinges,  and  meet  in  well-adjusted  touch. 
The  cowyard  and  the  pigsty  flank  the  lane,  and 
the  neatness  of  the  yard  and  the  tightness  of  the 
troughs  make  clear  that  there  is  no  waste  of  fod- 
der there.  Farther  down  and  on  my  left  is  the 
wagon-house,  as  good  a  building  almost  as  the 
cottage,  and  with  much  the  same  clean,  strong 
compactness.  There  are  no  ploughs  nor  other 
farming  tools  lying  exposed  to  the  weather,  no 


148  THE   WORKERS 

signs  of  idle  capital  wasting  with  the  wear  of 
rust,  but  everywhere  the  active,  thrifty  strength 
of  wise  economy. 

Two  men  are  at  work  at  the  pond,  and  I  pick 
my  man  at  once.  They  are  plainly  brothers,  but 
the  Mr.  Hill  of  whom  I  am  in  search  is  the 
stronger-looking  man,  and  is  clearly  in  command 
of  the  job.  I  am  reminded  of  a  certain  type 
which  one  comes  to  know  on  "the  street,"  a 
clean-cut,  vigorous  man,  who  keeps  his  youth 
till  sixty,  and  who,  for  many  years,  has  had  a 
masterful,  compelling  hand  upon  the  conduct  of 
affairs,  has  put  railways  through  the  West,  and 
opened  up  mining  regions,  and  knows  the  inner 
workings  of  legislatures  and  of  much  else 
besides. 

I  wait  for  a  pause  in  the  work,  and  try  to 
screw  my  courage  to  the  sticking-point ;  and 
then  I  tell  Mr.  Hill  that  the  landlord  at  the  tav- 
eni  has  sent  me  to  him  in  the  belief  that  he 
needs  a  man,  and  I  add  that  I  shall  be  glad  of  a 
job.  Without  preliminary  questions  Mr.  Hill 
engages  me  on  the  spot,  and  makes  me  an  offer 
of  board  and  lodging,  and  seventy-five  cents 
a  day,  which,  he  says,  is  the  usual  rate  on 
the  farms  at  that  season.  I  close  with  the  bar- 
gain, and  ask  to  be  set  to  work  immediately.  A 
minute  later  I  am  walking  up  the  lane  with  a 


A   FAEM   HAND  149 

message  for  Mrs.  Hill,  to  the  effect  that  I  am 
the  new  "hired  man,"  and  that  she  will  please 
give  me,  to  take  to  the  pond,  a  certain  "  broad 
hoe  "  from  the  wagon-house. 

Mrs.  Hill  understands  the  situation  at  once ; 
she  makes  no  comment,  but  goes  with  me  to  the 
wagon -house,  where  she  points  out  the  hoe 
among  other  tools  in  a  corner.  She  has  said 
nothing  so  far,  and  I  feel  a  little  uncomfortable, 
but  now  she  turns  to  me  with  a  frank  directness 
of  manner  that  is  very  reassuring. 

"  I  ain't  got  no  room  for  you  in  the  house,  but 
I  guess  you'll  be  comfortable  sleeping  out  here. 
You  can  fetch  your  grip,  and  I'll  show  you  your 
bed." 

Pack  in  hand,  I  follow  her  up  the  steps  to  the 
loft  of  the  wagon-house,  and  she  points  to  a  cot 
near  the  farther  window  and  a  wooden  chair  be- 
side it.  "  Some  time  to-day  I'll  make  up  your 
bed,  and  if  there's  anything  you  want  you  can 
tell  me."  This  is  her  final  word  as  she  leaves 
me  to  return  to  the  house.  I  slip  on  my  over- 
alls and  take  note  of  my  new  quarters.  Win- 
dows at  both  ends  of  the  loft  provide  ample 
ventilation.  The  cot  is  covered  with  a  corn- 
husk  mattress,  as  clean  and  fresh  as  a  cock  of 
new  hay.  The  very  floor  is  free  from  dust. 
The  rafters  hang  thick  with  bunches  of  seed- 


150  THE  WORKERS 

corn  on  the  cob,  with  their  outer  husks  removed 
and  the  inner  husks  drawn  back  and  neatly  in- 
terwoven, the  whole  effect  suggesting  stalactites 
in  a  cave.  The  air  is  fragrant  with  the  perfume 
from  slices  of  apples,  that  are  closely  threaded 
and  hung  up  to  dry  in  graceful  festoons  from 
rafter  to  rafter. 

Five  minutes  later  I  am  at  work  at  the  pond. 
The  pond  is  an  artificial  one,  created  by  a 
wooden  dam.  The  water  has  been  allowed  to 
flow  out,  and  the  old  woodwork  is  to  be  re- 
newed. 

My  immediate  task  is  to  dig  a  ditch  along  the 
outer  side  of  the  rotting  planks,  so  that  they 
can  be  removed  and  replaced  by  new  ones.  I 
am  soon  alone  on  the  job,  for  the  farmers'  work 
calls  them  elsewhere.  The  experience  in  the 
sewer-ditch  at  Middletown  is  all  to  my  credit, 
and  my  spirits  rise  with  the  discovery  that  I  can 
handle  my  pick  and  shovel  more  effectively,  and 
with  less  sense  of  exhaustion.  And  then  the 
stint  is  my  own,  and  no  boss  stands  guard  over 
me  as  a  dishonest  workman.  At  least  I  am  con- 
scious of  none,  and  I  am  working  on  merrily, 
when  suddenly  I  become  aware  of  my  employer 
bending  over  the  ditch  and  watching  me  in- 
tently. 

It  is  a  face  very  red  with  the  heat  and  much 


A  FARM  HAND  151 

bespattered  with  mud,  into  which  my  tools  sink 
gurglingly,  that  I  turn  up  to  him. 

"  How  are  you  getting  on  ?  " 

"  Pretty  well,  thank  you." 

"  You  mustn't  work  too  hard.  All  that  I  ask 
of  a  man  is  to  work  steady.  Have  an  apple  ?  " 

He  is  gone  in  a  moment,  and  I  stand  in  the 
ditch  eating  the  apple  with  immense  relish,  and 
thinking  what  a  good  sort  that  farmer  is,  and 
how  thoroughly  he  understands  the  principle  of 
getting  his  best  work  out  of  a  man !  He  has  ap- 
pealed to  my  sense  of  honor  by  intrusting  the 
job  to  me,  and  now  he  has  won  me  completely 
to  his  interests  by  showing  concern  in  mine. 

The  work  is  hard,  and  the  morning  hours 
are  very  long,  but  the  labor  achieves  its  own  sat- 
isfaction as  the  task  grows  under  one's  self-di- 
rected effort,  and  there  is  no  torture  of  body  and 
soul  in  the  surveillance  of  a  slave-driving  boss. 

But  I  am  thoroughly  tired  and  very  hungry 
when  Mr.  Hill  calls  to  me  from  across  the  pond 
that  it  is  time  to  go  to  dinner.  I  join  him  in 
haste,  and  we  walk  up  the  lane  together,  while 
he  drives  his  team  before  him,  and  points  out 
with  evident  pride  the  young  colts  and  other 
stock  in  the  pasture. 

On  a  bench  near  the  door  of  the  summer- 
kitchen  are  two  tin  basins  full  of  water,  and 


152  THE   WORKERS 

there  we  wash,  ourselves,  drawing  by  means  of  a 
gourd-dipper  from  a  brimming  bucket  near  by 
any  fresh  supply  of  water  that  we  want.  A 
coarse,  clean  towel  hangs  over  a  roller  above 
the  bench,  and  at  this  we  take  our  turns. 

The  dinner  is  a  quiet  meal,  and  tends  to  so- 
lemnity. Mrs.  Hill  and  her  daughter  sit  oppo- 
site the  farmer  and  me.  Little  is  said,  but  for 
me  there  is  absorbing  interest  in  the  meal  itself. 
It  is  worthy  of  the  best  traditions  of  country 
life,  clean  in  all  its  appointments  to  a  degree 
of  spotlessness,  really  elegant  in  its  quiet  sim- 
plicity, and  appetizing? — how  was  I  ever  to 
stop  eating  those  potatoes  that  spread  under  the 
pressure  of  my  fork  into  a  mass  of  flaky  deli- 
ciousness,  or  the  ears  of  sweet-corn  fresh  from 
a  late  field,  or  the  green  peas  that  swim  in  a 
sweet  stew  of  their  own  brewing,  or,  best  of  all, 
the  little  pond  pickerel  that  are  grilled  to  a  crisp 
brown  turn? 

In  our  more  artificial  forms  of  living  we 
habitually  eat  when  we  are  not  hungry,  and 
drink  when  we  are  not  thirsty,  and  we  know  lit- 
tle of  the  sheer  physical  delight  in  meat  and 
drink  when  our  natures  seize  joyously  upon  the 
means  of  life,  and  organs  work  in  glad  adapta- 
tion to  function,  and  the  organism,  in  full  revi- 
val, responds  to  its  environment ! 


A   FAEM   HAND  153 

The  work  moves  uninterruptedly  in  the  after- 
noon ;  and  at  six  o'clock,  as  I  wearily  drag  my 
feet  along  the  lane  by  the  farmer's  side,  I  can 
see  his  daughter  driving  the  cattle  through  the 
pasture  to  the  cowyard,  and  I  wonder  how  I 
shall  fare  at  the  evening  milking.  But  I  am  not 
put  to  that  test ;  for  the  farmer  declines  my  offer 
of  help,  with  the  explanation  that,  under  our  ar- 
rangement, my  day's  work  is  done  at  six  o'clock, 
and  that  he  is  not  entitled  to  further  help,  nor 
does  he  need  it,  he  adds,  for  his  wife  and  daugh- 
ter always  lend  a  hand  at  the  chores. 

Supper  is  almost  a  repetition  of  dinner,  with 
a  pitcher  of  rich  milk  kindly  pressed  upon  me 
when  I  decline  the  tea,  and  with  apple-sauce 
and  cake  in  the  place  of  pumpkin-pie.  Soon 
after,  I  am  lighting  my  way  with  a  lantern 
through  the  dark  to  my  cot  in  the  loft,  and  for 
ten  hours  I  sleep  the  sleep  of  a  child,  and 
awake  at  six  in  the  morning  to  the  farmer's 
call  of  "  John,  hey  John ! "  from  under  the 
window. 

All  of  that  day,  which  was  "Wednesday,  was 
given  to  completing  the  work  on  the  dam.  The 
necessary  excavation  was  soon  finished,  and 
then  we  laid  the  timbers,  and  nailed  the  new 
planks  into  place,  and  rilled  in  and  packed  the 
earth  behind  them.  Over  the  completed  job  the 


154  THE   WORKERS 

farmer  expressed  such  a  depth  of  satisfaction 
that  I  felt  a  glow  of  pride  in  the  work,  and  a 
sense  of  proprietorship,  which  was  splendidly 
compensating  for  the  effort  which  it  had  cost. 

The  remaining  three  days  of  the  week  we 
spent  in  picking  apples.  Behind  the  wagon- 
house  was  an  orchard.  Mr.  Hill  first  selected  a 
tree,  and  then  we  placed  under  it  the  number  of 
empty  barrels,  which,  in  his  judgment,  corre- 
sponded to  its  yield,  a  judgment  which  was  al- 
ways singularly  accurate.  Then,  each  supplied 
with  a  half-bushel  basket  with  a  wooden  hook 
attached  to  the  handle,  we  next  climbed  among 
the  branches,  and  suspending  our  baskets,  we 
carefully  picked  the  apples  with  a  quick  upward 
turn  of  the  fruit,  which  detached  them  at  the 
point  at  which  the  stem  was  fast  to  the  twig. 
Both  baskets  were  usually  full  at  about  the  same 
moment,  and  then  we  took  turns  in  climbing 
down  and  receiving  the  baskets  from  the  tree, 
and  emptying  the  apples  into  the  barrels  with 
great  caution  against  possible  bruising. 

All  this  was  Arcadian  in  its  joyous  simplicity. 
All  day  we  moved  among  the  boughs,  breathing 
the  fragrance  of  ripened  fruit  and  the  mellow 
odor  of  apple-trees  turning  at  the  touch  of  frost ; 
picking  ceaselessly  the  full-juiced  apples  "  sweet- 
ened with  the  summer  light,"  while  above  us 


A  FAKM  HAND  155 

white  clouds  fled  briskly  before  the  northwest 
wind  across  the  clear  blue  of  the  autumn  sky ; 
and  below  us  lay  the  pasture,  where  the  patient 
cattle  grazed,  and  beyond  stretched  open  coun- 
try of  field  and  forest,  which,  in  that  crystal  air, 
met  the  horizon  in  a  clean,  sharp  line. 

Mr.  Hill  and  I  were  growing  very  chummy. 
A  faint  uncomfortable  distrust  of  me,  which  I 
suspected  through  the  first  two  days,  had  wholly 
disappeared.  We  talked  with  perfect  freedom 
now  and  with  a  growing  liking  for  each  other, 
which,  for  me,  added  vastly  to  the  charm  of 
those  six  days  on  the  farm. 

I  tried  at  first  to  lead  the  talk,  and  to  draw 
Mr.  Hill  into  expressions  of  his  views  of  life, 
that  I  might  learn  his  attitude  toward  modern 
progress,  and  catch  glimpses  of  the  growth  of 
things  from  his  point  of  view.  But  Mr.  Hill  was 
proof  against  such  promptings.  He  was  a 
shrewd,  practical  farmer,  with  a  masterful  hold 
upon  all  the  details  of  his  enterprise,  and  with  a 
mind  quickened  by  thrifty  conduct  of  his  own 
affairs  to  a  catholic  taste  for  information.  His 
schooling  had  been  limited,  he  said,  but  he  must 
have  meant  his  actual  school  training  ;  for  life  it- 
self had  been  his  school,  and  admirably  had  he 
improved  its  advantages.  He  was  a  trained  ob- 
server and  a  close  student  of  actual  events.  In- 


156  THE  WOBKERS 

stead  of  my  getting  him  to  talk,  he  made  me 
talk,  but  with  so  natural  a  force  as  to  rob  it  of 
all  thought  of  compulsion. 

The  talk  drifted  early  into  politics,  and  I  soon 
found  that  my  light  -  hearted  generalizations 
would  not  pass  muster.  Back  and  back  he 
would  press  me  upon  the  data  of  each  induction, 
until  I  was  forced  to  tell  what  I  knew,  or  was 
confronted  with  my  ignorance. 

And  then  he  delighted  in  talk  of  other  people 
than  our  own,  and  his  knowledge  of  a  somewhat 
general  contemporaneous  history  was  curiously 
varied  and  accurate.  Stories  of  succeeding 
English  ministries,  and  even  of  the  short-lived 
French  cabinets,  were  ready  to  his  use,  and  he 
tactfully  righted  me  in  my  errors.  But  he  held 
me  closest  to  my  memories  of  things  among  the 
common  people,  the  agricultural  laborers  in 
England,  and  their  relation  to  the  farmers,  and 
theirs  in  turn  to  the  landed  proprietors,  and  the 
promise  which  the  land  could  give  of  continued 
support  to  three  classes,  under  the  changed  con- 
ditions of  modern  life.  All  that  I  could  remem- 
ber of  a  typical  laborer's  home,  and  of  its  manner 
of  life,  and  of  the  general  aspect  of  an  English 
farm,  seemed  only  to  whet  his  appetite,  and  to 
strengthen  his  demand  for  what  I  knew  of  the 
continental  peasantry.  His  interest  centred 


A   FARM   HAND  157 

strongly  in  the  French,  and  there  was  plainly  a 
peculiar  charm  for  him  in  every  detail  which  I 
could  give  of  the  French  farmers,  with  their 
small  holdings,  and  their  inherited  habits  of 
thrift,  and  of  the  close  culture  of  their  lands. 
But  he  would  even  lead  me  on  to  speak  of  great 
cities,  and  of  the  life  in  them  of  the  rich  and 
poor,  and  of  any  signs,  of  which  1  knew,  of  grow- 
ing social  discontent.  And  with  an  interest  that 
never  flagged,  he  questioned  me  on  works  of 
art ;  and  followed  patiently,  and  with  a  zest  that 
warmed  one's  own  enthusiasm,  through  endless 
churches,  and  long  dim  galleries,  and  by  nar- 
row, crooked  streets  of  a  modern  city  to  the 
ruins  of  its  distant  past.  And  there  we  restored 
the  crumbling  piles,  until  there  stood  clear  to 
his  imagination  a  vision  of  Imperial  Rome,  and 
his  eyes  kindled  to  some  great  general's  triumph 
moving  through  the  Via  Sacra,  and  the  people 
swarming  to  the  very  chimney-tops,  their  infants 
in  their  arms,  and  on  the  air  the  deep,  rich  mov- 
ing roar  of  high  acclaim  ! 

Sunday  was  the  last  day  of  my  stay  on  the 
farm.  When,  in  the  middle  of  the  week,  I 
found  that  Mr.  Hill  was  likely  to  keep  me,  I 
was  conscience-stricken,  because  I  had  not  told 
him  that  my  stay  would  be  short.  He  said 
nothing  at  first  in  reply  to  my  announcement, 


158  THE   WOKKERS 

but  presently  remarked  that  it  was  very  hard 
to  get  men  in  that  part  of  the  country. 

"  But,  surely,"  I  said,  "  more  men  apply  to 
you  for  work  than  you  can  possibly  employ." 

He  looked  at  me  with  some  wonder,  at  my 
ignorance. 

"  For  a  long  time  I  have  been  looking  for  a 
man  to  help  me,"  he  said.  "  I'm  growing  old, 
and  I  can't  do  the  work  that  I  once  did.  If 
I  could  find  the  right  man,  I'd  keep  him  the 
year  round,  and  pay  him  good  wages.  But 
the  best  young  fellows  go  to  the  cities,  and  the 
rest  are  mostly  a  worthless  lot.  There's  hardly 
a  day  in  the  year  when  I  haven't  a  job  for  any 
decent  man  who'll  ask  for  it.  I  have  to  go  look- 
ing for  men,  and  then  I  generally  can't  find  one 
that's  any  account." 

This  was  much  the  longest  speech  that  he 
had  made  to  me  so  far,  and  a  very  interesting 
one  I  thought  it,  and  I  am  only  sorry  that  I  can- 
not reproduce  the  exact  phraseology,  with  its 
Anglo-Saxon  words  set,  by  an  instinctive  choice, 
into  rugged  sentences  which  admirably  ex- 
pressed the  man.  I  waited  hopefully  for  fur- 
ther speech  from  him,  and  at  last  it  came,  quite 
of  its  own  accord  ;  for  I  had  given  up  trying  to 
draw  him  out. 

We  were  sitting  together  on  Sunday  evening 


A  FAKM  HAND  159 

on  the  platform  of  the  pump  in  front  of  the 
farm-house.  It  had  been  a  very  restful  Sunday. 
In  the  morning  I  went  to  the  village  church, 
where  two  services  followed  each  other  in  quick 
succession.  The  first  was  a  prayer-meeting,  at- 
tended by  a  little  company  of  farming  people 
and  village  folk,  who  conscientiously  parted 
company  at  the  door  on  the  basis  of  sex,  and  sat 
on  opposite  sides  of  a  central  aisle. 

The  service  was  a  simple  one.  The  leader 
read  a  passage  from  the  Bible,  and  offered 
prayer,  and  then  gave  out  a  hymn.  When  the 
singing  ceased,  one  after  another,  the  older  men, 
with  nervous  pauses  between,  rose  to  "  testify  "  or 
sank  to  their  knees,  and  prayed  aloud.  I  chiefly 
remember  one  as  a  typical  figure — an  old  man, 
whose  thick  white  hair  mingled  with  a  bushy 
beard  that  covered  his  face.  I  noticed  him  first 
in  comfortable  possession  of  a  bench  along 
which  he  stretched  his  legs.  On  his  feet  were 
loose  carpet-slippers ;  and  with  his  shoulders 
braced  against  the  wall,  and  his  head  thrown 
back,  and  his  eyes  closed,  he  looked  the  vision 
of  physical  ease,  which  matched  the  expression 
of  deep  contentment  that  he  wore.  There  was 
no  suspicion  of  sleep  about  him.  Most  evident- 
ly he  followed  with  liveliest  sympathy  every 
word  that  was  said  or  sung.  I  looked  up  pres- 


160  THE   WOEKEES 

ently  at  the  sound  of  a  new  voice,  and  found 
the  old  man  on  his  feet.  He  was  adding  his 
"  testimony  "  to  what  had  gone  before,  and  was 
speaking  rapidly  in  a  deep,  gruff  voice  with 
blunt  articulation.  There  was  a  strong  remind- 
er in  the  performance  of  a  school-boy's  "  speak- 
ing his  piece ; "  the  monotonous,  unnatural  tone ; 
the  rapid  flow  of  conventional,  committed 
phrase ;  and  the  nervous  tension,  which  com- 
municated itself  to  his  hearers  in  a  fear  that  he 
might  forget. 

But  there  came  at  length,  without  calamity, 
the  final  "  Pray  for  me  that  I  may  be  kept 
faithful,"  and  then  he  knelt  in  prayer.  Invo- 
cations from  the  Prophets,  and  supplications 
from  the  Psalms,  and  glowing  exhortations 
from  the  Epistles,  were  interwoven  with  strang- 
est interpolations  of  his  own,  while  his  voice 
rose  and  fell  in  regular  cadences  and  he  audibly 
caught  his  breath  between.  But  he  was  losing 
himself  in  his  devotion,  and  presently  his  voice 
fell  to  a  natural  tone,  and  his  words  grew  plain 
and  direct,  as  he  held  converse  with  the  Al- 
mighty about  our  common  life — of  sin  and  its 
awful  guilt,  of  temptation  and  its  fateful  trial,  of 
suffering  and  its  terrible  reality,  of  sorrow  and 
its  cruel  mystery.  Then,  as  though  quickened 
by  the  touch  of  truth,  his  faith  rose  on  surer 


A   FARM   HAND  161 

wings,  and  his  prayer  breathed  the  sense  of  sin 
forgiven,  and  of  life  made  strong  by  a  power  not 
our  own,  and  of  hope  exultant  in  the  knowledge 
"  of  that  new  life  when  sin  shall  be  no  more  !  " 

A  solemn  stillness  held  us  when  he  rose,  and 
made  us  feel  the  presence  in  our  common  lot  of 
things  divine  and  that  deep  sacredness  of  life 
which  awes  us  most. 

A  short  preaching  service  followed.  The 
preacher  drove  up  on  the  hour  from  another 
parish,  and  started  off,  at  the  meeting's  end,  for 
yet  a  third  appointment. 

This  is  a  long  digression  from  Mr.  Hill's  talk 
of  the  evening,  and  I  have  said  nothing  yet  of 
the  afternoon.  We  took  chairs  out  on  the  grass 
in  front  of  the  cottage,  after  dinner,  and  sat  in 
the  shade.  We  soon  had  visitors.  Mr.  Hill's 
brother  and  his  wife  walked  up  from  the  lower 
farm,  and  a  little  later  there  came  Mr.  Hill's  son 
and  his  young  bride.  The  son  is  a  physician, 
whose  practice  covers  much  of  that  country-side ; 
and  it  was  interesting  to  me  to  learn  that  his 
professional  training  was  got  at  the  College  of 
Physicians  and  Surgeons  in  New  York. 

Fearful  of  disturbing  the  family  gathering,  I 
drew  off  a  little,  and  gave  my  attention  to  a 
book.  Late  in  the  afternoon  I  was  roused  by 

the  coming  of  another  guest.     He  was  an  old 
11 


162  THE   WOKKERS 

neighboring  farmer  out  in  search  of  a  heifer 
which  had  broken  through  the  pasture-fence. 
As  he  joined  us  he  was  speaking  so  swiftly  and 
incoherently  about  the  heifer's  escape  that  I  felt 
some  doubt  of  his  sanity,  but  he  quieted  down  in 
a  moment,  and  threw  himself  on  the  grass  with 
the  evident  purpose  of  resting  before  resuming 
the  search.  He  was  lying  flat  upon  his  back, 
and  his  long  bony  fingers  were  clasped  under 
his  head.  He  wore  no  hat,  nor  coat,  nor  waist- 
coat, and  a  dark  gingham  shirt  lay  close  to  the 
sharp  outlines  of  his  almost  fleshless  body. 
Braces  that  were  patched  with  strings  passed 
over  his  lean  shoulders,  and  were  made  fast  to 
faded  blue  jeans,  whose  extremities  were  tucked 
into  an  old  pair  of  cowhide  boots.  A  long 
white  beard  rested  on  his  breast,  reaching  al- 
most to  his  waist.  Only  a  thin  fringe  of  hair 
remained  above  his  ears ;  and  over  the  skull  the 
bare  skin  was  so  tightly  drawn  that  you  could 
almost  trace  the  zigzagging  junctures  of  the 
frontal  and  the  cranium  bones. 

But  skeleton  as  he  was,  he  was  marvellously 
alive.  His  eyes  were  aflame,  and  prone  as  he 
lay  and  resting,  he  impressed  you  as  a  man 
so  vitalized,  that  with  a  single  movement 
he  could  be  upon  his  feet  and  in  intense  ac- 
tivity. He  was  talking  on  about  the  heifer, 


A   FARM   HAND  163 

nervously  repeating  to  us,  again  and  again,  the 
details  of  where  he  had  seen  her  last,  and  the 
rift  which  he  had  found  in  the  fence,  and  how  he 
had  sent  his  hired  man  in  one  direction,  and  had 
gone  in  another  himself. 

He  was  a  rich  farmer,  Mr.  Hill  told  me  after- 
ward, and  he  lived  alone,  except  for  an  occasional 
hired  man  whom  he  could  induce  to  stay  with 
him  for  a  season.  But  even  in  his  old  age  he 
worked  on  his  farm  with  the  strength  and  en- 
durance of  three  men,  laying  aside,  year  by  year, 
his  store  of  gain.  Without  a  single  human  tie 
he  worked  on  as  though  spurred  by  every  claim 
of  affection  and  the  highest  sense  of  responsi- 
bility to  provide  for  those  whom  he  loved ;  and 
all  the  while  a  vast  misanthropy  grew  upon  him, 
and  he  would  see  less  and  less  of  his  fellow-men, 
and  an  almost  life-long  scepticism  hardened  into 
downright  unbelief. 

So  far  he  had  not  noticed  me;  but  now  he 
turned  my  way,  lifting  himself  upon  his  elbow, 
and  fixing  his  sunken,  burning  eyes  on  mine, 
while  the  white  hairs  of  his  beard  mingled  with 
the  blades  of  grass. 

"  You're  hired  out  to  Jim,  ain't  ye  ?  " 

Jim  was  his  designation  of  Mr.  Hill. 

"  Yes,"  I  said. 

"  What's  he  payin'  you?  " 


164  THE  WORKERS 

I  told  him. 

Mr.  Hill  was  squirming  in  nervous  discom- 
fort. 

"What's  your  name?" 

I  gave  it  him. 

"  Where  are  you  come  from?  " 

"  Connecticut." 

"Connecticut?  That's  down  South,  ain't 
it?" 

"  No,  that's  down  East." 

"  Was  you  raised  there  ?  " 

I  do  not  know  into  what  particulars  of  my 
history  and  of  my  antecedents  this  process  might 
have  forced  me  had  not  the  heifer  come  to  my 
relief.  She  was  a  beautiful  creature,  with  a 
clean  sorrel  coat,  and  wide,  liquid,  mischievous 
eyes ;  and  as  she  ran  daintily  over  the  turf  at 
the  side  of  the  lane,  saucily  tossing  her  head, 
you  knew  that  she  was  closely  calculating  every 
chance  of  dodging  the  gawky  country  boy  who, 
breathing  hard,  lunged  after  her. 

Without  a  word  of  parting,  and  as  abruptly 
as  he  came,  the  old  man  was  gone  to  head  her 
off  in  the  right  direction  at  the  mouth  of  the 
lane.  And  so  he  disappeared,  as  strange  a  hu- 
man being  as  the  world  holds,  living  tremendous- 
ly a  life  of  strenuous  endeavor,  yet  Godless  and 
hopeless  and  loveless  in  it  all,  except  for  the 


A   FARM   HAND  165 

greedy  love  of  gain,  which  holds  him  in  miser- 
able bondage,  as  he  works  his  life  away. 

It  was  soon  after  supper  that  Mr.  Hill  and  I 
sat  down  together  on  the  platform  of  the  pump. 
There  was  little  movement  in  the  air,  and  it 
was  very  mild  for  the  twenty-seventh  of  Sep- 
tember. As  the  stars  appeared,  they  shone 
upon  us  through  a  mellow  warmth,  like  that  of 
summer,  in  which  they  seem  magically  near,  and 
one  feels  their  calm  companionship  in  human 
things. 

"  And  you've  made  up  your  mind  to  go  in  the 
morning  ?  "  Mr.  Hill  began. 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "I  must  be  off.  I  am  truly 
sorry  to  go.  But  you  surprise  me  by  what  you 
tell  me  of  the  difficulty  in  the  country  of  getting 
men  to  work.  One  hears  so  much  about  'the 
unemployed,'  that  any  demand  for  labor,  which 
remains  unsupplied,  seems  to  me  an  anomalous 
condition."  * 

"  That's  a  big  question,"  he  said,  with  a  deep 
sigh,  as  he  leant  back  against  the  pump  and 
looked  at  me  out  of  blue  eyes  that  were  gray 

*  I  have  presented  here,  together  with  ideas  advanced  by 
Mr.  Hill,  others  secured  in  fragmentary  conversations  with 
various  farmers  by  the  way.  These  ideas  seem  to  me  to  rep- 
resent a  body  of  accordant  thinking.  It  is  fair  to  say  that 
I  also  found  among  the  farmers  quite  another  school  of 
thought.  This  I  shall  try  to  present  later  with  equal  fulness. 


166  THE   WORKERS 

and  keen  in  the  starlight.  "  It  reminds  me  of 
what  we  used  to  call  a  hard  example  in  arith- 
metic in  the  district  school  when  I  was  a  boy. 
There's  a  good  many  things  you've  got  to  take 
account  of,  if  you  work  it  out  right,  and  there's 
a  good  many  chances  of  mistake,  and  a  mistake 
goes  hard  with  your  answer.  I  haven't  worked 
this  sum  and  I  haven't  seen  it  worked,  but  I've 
studied  it  a  good  while,  and  I  think  I  know  how 
to  do  parts  of  it." 

He  paused  for  a  moment  and  then  went  on  : 
"  In  the  last  hundred  and  fifty  years  there  have 
been  great  changes  in  the  world  in  the  ways  of 
producing  things — '  improved  methods  of  pro- 
duction' the  books  call  it.  Some  say  it  ain't 
really  '  improved,'  only  faster  and  cheaper,  but 
I'm  not  arguing  that  point.  The  power  of  peo- 
ple to  produce  the  necessaries  of  life  is  a  big 
sight  greater  than  it  was  a  hundred  and  fifty 
years  ago — that's  my  point.  It's  what  the  books 
call  'increased  power  of  production.'  And 
among  civilized  people  there's  been  this  in- 
crease of  producing  power  in  about  all  the 
forms  of  production.  In  some  forms  it's  been 
very  great,  and  in  others  not  so  great ;  but  I 
guess  there  ain't  many  kinds  of  business  that 
haven't  been  changed  by  it. 

"  Now,  I  think  that  the  farming  business  has 


A   FARM  HAND  167 

lagged  behind  the  rest.  Not  that  there  ain't 
been  improvement,  for  there's  been  great  im- 
provement. There's  the  steam-ploughs,  and  the 
reapers,  and  harvesters,  and  mowers,  and  the 
threshing-machines;  and  then  there's  the  sci- 
ence of  agricultural  chemistry.  But  I'm  judg- 
ing of  what  I  know  of  the  farming  business  as 
it's  carried  on. 

"Now,  here's  my  farm:  it's  part  of  a  tract 
that  my  great-grandfather  settled  on  and  cleared. 
I've  heard  my  grandfather  tell  many  a  time  of 
the  Indians  that  were  all  about  here  when  he 
was  a  boy,  and  even  my  father  often  went  hunt- 
ing deer  down  on  the  lake  this  side  of  the 
woods. 

"  Well,  I  know  this  country  pretty  well,  and 
I  find  that  a  farmer  now  don't  work  any  bigger 
farm  than  my  grandfather  did,  nor  the  work  isn't 
much  lighter,  nor  he  doesn't  get  much  more  for 
it.  There's  been  a  good  many  changes,  but  as 
the  farming  business  goes,  there  ain't  any  in- 
creased production  that's  kept  up  with  other 
kinds  of  business  when  you  calculate  how  many 
farmers  there  are  and  how  much  they  do. 

"  I  read  in  a  book  the  other  day  that  twenty- 
five  men,  with  modern  machinery,  can  produce 
as  much  cotton  cloth  as  the  whole  population  of 
Lancashire  could  produce  in  the  old  way ;  but 


168  THE  WOBKERS 

there  ain't  any  twenty-five  men  who  could  work 
the  farms  of  this  township  with  all  the  modern 
farming  machinery. 

"  Take  it  day  in  and  day  out  the  whole  year 
round  on  the  farms,  and  a  man's  work  or  a  team's 
work  is  pretty  much  what  it  was  a  hundred 
years  ago. 

"  And  here's  another  thing  that  makes  a  great 
difference  between  farming  and  other  kinds  of 
business.  When  I  go  to  the  city  I  most  gener- 
ally visit  some  factory  and  go  through  it  as 
carefully  as  I  can.  The  machinery  is  interest- 
ing and  wonderful,  and  if  it's  something  useful 
they're  making,  I  like  to  compare  the  productive 
power  of  the  factory  hands  with  what  it  would 
be  if  they  were  all  working  separately  by  the  old 
methods.  But  besides  this,  there's  the  wonder- 
ful economy  that  I  see.  The  factory  is  built  so 
as  to  save  all  the  carting  that's  possible,  and 
there's  men  always  studying  how  they  can  make 
it  more  convenient,  and  can  improve  the  ma- 
chinery and  cut  down  the  costs.  And  then  I 
don't  find  any  leakage  anywhere  that  can  be 
helped ;  and  it's  most  wonderful  what  they  do 
in  some  kinds  of  manufacturing  with  what  you'd 
think  was  the  very  refuse,  working  it  up  into 
some  by-product  that  makes  the  difference  be- 
tween profit  and  loss  in  the  whole  business.  It's 


A   FARM  HAND  169 

close  culture  of  the  closest  kind  applied  to  manu- 
facture. 

"  Sometimes  I've  had  a  chance  to  talk  to  a 
superintendent  of  a  factory,  and  he's  told  me 
about  the  business  from  the  inside — how  care- 
fully he  must  study  the  market  and  how  closely 
he  must  calculate  a  hundred  things;  and  how 
exactly  his  books  must  be  kept,  and  how  easy 
it  is  for  a  little  thing  that's  been  miscalculated 
or  overlooked  to  ruin  the  business. 

"  I  tell  you  that  I've  come  to  see  pretty  clearly 
that  the  business  that  pays  iu  these  times  of 
competition  is  a  powerful  lucky  one  and  power- 
ful well  managed.  When  the  year's  work  is 
done  and  the  wages  have  been  paid,  and  the  rent 
and  the  interest  on  the  capital  paid  up,  and  the 
salaries  paid  to  the  brains  that  run  the  thing, 
it's  a  remarkable  business  that's  got  anything 
over  in  the  way  of  profit. 

"  Now,  the  farming  business,  as  I  look  at  it, 
is  a  long  way  behind  all  that.  "We  don't  know 
much  about  close  culture  in  farming  in  Amer- 
ica, and  I  don't  believe  there's  one  farmer  in 
five  hundred  that  keeps  books  and  can  tell  you 
exactly  where  he  stands  ;  and  these  things  we've 
got  to  learn.  It's  terrible  easy  to  let  things  go 
their  own  way  pretty  much  —  until  the  fences 
are  falling  down  and  your  buildings  are  out  of 


170  THE  WORKERS 

repair,  and  your  tools  are  going  to  ruin  with  rust, 
and  your  children  are  not  having  good  advan- 
tages. You  may  think  that  you're  too  poor  to 
afford  anything  different  and  that  it's  economy 
to  live  so.  But  it  ain't ;  it's  the  worst  kind  of 
waste.  It  takes  a  sight  of  hard  work,  brain- 
work,  and  handwork,  too,  to  get  good,  substan- 
tial buildings  and  fences,  and  tools  and  stock, 
and  to  keep  them  good  and  to  raise  your  chil- 
dren well.  You've  got  to  make  a  close  calcula- 
tion on  every  penny,  but  it's  the  only  true  econ- 
omy. The  difference  between  the  economy  of 
shabbiness  and  the  economy  of  thrift  is  the  dif- 
ference between  waste  and  saving. 

"  My  father  could  not  give  me  much  school 
learning,  but  he  learnt  me  to  farm  it  thoroughly. 
I've  been  at  it  a  good  many  years  now,  and  I 
know  by  experience  the  truth  of  what  he  taught 
me.  If  there's  ever  been  anything  more  than 
our  living  at  the  end  of  the  year,  it's  only  be- 
cause we  all  worked  hard,  my  wife  and  daughter 
as  hard  in  the  house  as  me  and  my  son  on  the 
farm  ;  and  because  we  studied  to  raise  the  best 
of  everything  we  could,  and  to  get  the  best 
prices  we  could,  and  we  saved  every  penny  that 
could  be  saved. 

"  My  son  wanted  to  study  to  be  a  doctor  when 
he  was  growing  up,  and  so  I  gave  him  the  best 


A  FARM  HAND  171 

schooling  that  he  could  get  around  here ;  and 
when  he  was  old  enough,  and  I  saw  his  mind 
was  made  up,  I  sent  him  to  the  best  medical 
college  I  could  find.  And  I've  given  my  daughter 
all  the  schooling  she's  had  the  strength  for.  It's 
the  best  economy  to  get  the  best,  whether  it's 
buildings,  or  tools,  or  stock,  or  education  ;  and 
there's  a  great  deal  more  satisfaction  in  it  be- 
sides. I  tell  you  this  because  it's  my  experience, 
and  I  know  it,  but  I  owe  it  mainly  to  the  raising 
my  father  gave  me.  It's  hard  work,  and  it's 
hard  study,  and  it's  awful  careful  economy  in 
little  things  as  well  as  big,  that  makes  a  man 
succeed  in  any  business. 

"  You've  heard  the  saying  that  '  the  luxuries  of 
one  generation  are  the  necessities  of  the  next.' 
That's  certainly  true  in  the  country.  I've  heard 
my  grandfather  say  that  when  he  was  a  boy  it 
didn't  take  more  than  ten  dollars  a  year  to  pay 
for  everything  that  the  family  bought.  All  that 
they  wore  and  ate  and  drank  they  raised  on  the 
farm,  and  they  built  their  own  buildings,  and 
made  their  own  tools,  mostly,  and  worked  out 
most  of  their  taxes. 

"I'm  not  saying  that  farmers  must  go  back 
to  that.  It  ain't  possible.  It's  every  way  bet- 
ter now  to  buy  your  cloth  than  to  make  it,  and 
so  with  your  tools,  and  many  other  things ;  but 


172  THE   WOEKEES 

when  I  see  a  farmer's  family  spend  in  a  year  for 
clothes  and  feathers  and  finery  as  much  as  ten 
families  did  for  all  they  bought  in  the  old  days, 
and  at  the  same  time  their  fences  are  falling  and 
their  stock  suffering  from  neglect,  I  see  that 
these  people  don't  know  their  business.  And 
when  I  see  a  farmer  mortgage  a  piece  of  land 
to  give  his  daughter  a  fashionable  wedding,  and 
then  complain  that  there  ain't  a  living  to  be 
made  any  more  in  farming,  I'm  sorry  for  him. 

"  You  see,  in  the  old  days  the  ways  of  farming 
were  primitive  and  simple,  and  the  ways  of  liv- 
ing were  primitive  and  simple,  too,  and  they 
matched  each  other.  Now  both  have  changed. 
Farming  is  different,  and  living  in  the  country  is 
different.  The  style  of  living  in  the  country  is 
copied  from  the  towns,  where  there's  been  the 
greatest  increase  of  producing  power ;  and  I 
argue  that  the  increase  of  producing  power  on 
the  farms  hasn't  by  any  means  kept  up  to  what 
it  is  in  the  cities. 

"  Now,  this  difference  ain't  unnatural.  Every- 
body knows  that  the  big  fortunes  of  the  last  hun- 
dred years  have  mostly  been  made  in  manufact- 
ure in  the  cities,  and  in  the  increase  of  land  val- 
ues in  the  cities,  and  in  the  development  of  rail- 
roads and  mines.  And  where  the  big  fortunes 
have  been  made,  there's  been  the  best  chances 


A   FARM   HAND  173 

for  brains  and  energy  and  enterprise.  And 
where  brains  and  energy  and  enterprise  are  at 
work,  there  all  kinds  of  labor  will  go,  for  it's 
these  that  make  employment  for  labor. 

"Now,  it  ain't  saying  anything  against  farmers 
to  say  that  the  best  brains  that  have  been  born 
on  the  farms  for  the  last  hundred  years  haven't 
stayed  on  the  farms.  The  farming  business 
hasn't  had  the  benefit  of  them,  but  they've  gone 
to  the  professions,  and  the  business  in  the  cities, 
where  the  most  money  was  to  be  made. 

"  So  that  through  all  this  time  of  '  increasing 
power  of  production  '  there's  been  a  constant 
drain  from  the  country  of  its  best  brains  and 
blood,  and  it  ain't  strange  that  the  farming  busi- 
ness has  lagged  behind  the  others  which  these 
have  gone  into. 

"  I  believe  there's  going  to  be  a  change.  I 
believe  the  change  is  begun.  Competition  is  so 
keen  now  in  about  all  kinds  of  business,  that 
the  chances  of  making  a  fortune  and  making  it 
quick  are  very  few.  There's  about  so  much  in- 
terest to  be  got  for  your  capital,  and  if  the 
security  is  good,  the  interest  is  very  low,  and 
there's  about  so  much  to  be  got  for  your  brains, 
unless  you've  got  particular  rare  brains ;  and  as 
the  competition  grows  keener,  brains  begin  to 
see  that  there's  about  as  much  to  be  made  out  of 


174  THE   WORKERS 

farming  as  out  of  other  kinds  of  business.  In- 
vention has  done  a  lot  already,  and  when  the 
same  economy  and  thrift  and  thorough  business 
principles  are  used  in  farming  as  are  used  in  other 
kinds  of  production,  the  farming  business  will 
soon  catch  up  with  the  others.  And  where  the 
brains  and  enterprise  and  energy  go,  labor  will 
soon  follow ;  and  for  a  time  anyway,  there  won't 
be  as  many  unemployed  in  the  cities,  nor  as  many 
farmers  in  the  country  looking  for  men  to  work. 
But  why  are  there  unemployed  in  the  cities, 
while  there  is  already  a  demand  for  men  in  the 
country?  Why,  because  many  of  the  unem- 
ployed ain't  fit  for  us  to  take  into  our  homes  as 
hired  men,  and  many  don't  know  that  there's 
such  a  chance  for  them,  and  many  if  they  do 
know,  would  sooner  starve  in  the  cities  than 
work  and  live  on  a  farm.  I've  got  an  idea  that 
when  the  farming  business  is  developed,  there'll 
be  a  big  change  in  country  life.  Where  there's 
plenty  of  brains  and  push  and  enterprise,  there's 
likely  to  be  excitement. 

"  But  it's  got  to  come  naturally ;  you  can't 
pump  interest  into  country  living  by  legislation. 
I  had  to  laugh  the  other  day  when  I  was  read- 
ing a  speech  that  Mr.  John  Morley  made  in 
Manchester,  I  think  it  was.  Anyway,  he  was 
arguing  for  parish  councils,  and  he  said  that 


A   FAEM  HAND  175 

this  '  gregarious  instinct '  that  makes  country 
people  flock  into  towns  that  are  already  over- 
crowded, is  something  that  we  ought  to  counter- 
act by  making  country  life  more  interesting,  and 
he  thought  that  parish  councils  would  help  to 
do  that.  Lord  Salisbury  got  into  him  pretty 
well  a  short  time  after,  when  he  said  in  a  speech 
that  he  never  had  thought  it  was  the  duty  of 
the  government  to  provide  amusement  for  the 
people,  but  if  he  was  making  a  suggestion  in 
that  line,  he  would  like  to  recommend  the  circus. 
"  There's  another  reason  besides  the  keen  com- 
petition in  other  kinds  of  business  that  makes 
me  think  that  farming  is  going  to  be  brought  up 
to  the  others,  and  that  is,  that  so  many  of  the 
colleges  are  teaching  scientific  farming.  You 
ain't  going  to  see  any  very  great  result  from  this 
in  a  year,  nor  in  ten  years,  for  there's  a  pretty 
big  field  to  work  on.  But  when  smart  young 
fellows  that  are  raised  in  the  country,  and  other 
smart  young  fellows  that  see  a  good  chance  to 
make  something  at  farming — when  they  all  get  a 
thorough  training  in  scientific  farming,  and  when 
they  all  get  down  to  work,  just  as  they  would  in 
some  other  highly  developed  form  of  production, 
you  will  see  results.  There  won't  be  much  in 
shiftless  farming  when  the  scientific  kind  pretty 
generally  sets  the  pace. 


176  THE   WORKEES 

"  I've  read  a  good  deal,  of  late  years,  about 
*  organized  charities '  in  the  cities,  and  it  cer- 
tainly does  seem  as  if  charity  was  a  good  deal 
more  sensible  than  it  used  to  be.  It's  hard  to 
see  how  there  can  be  any  kind  of  serious  desti- 
tution in  the  cities  that  ain't  got  some  society  to 
relieve  it.  And  the  rich  in  the  cities  do  cer- 
tainly spend  a  powerful  lot  of  time  and  work 
and  money  in  keeping  up  these  charities  and 
amusements  for  the  poor ;  but  I  don't  see  any 
signs  that  the  poor  love  the  rich  any  more,  nor 
that  there's  any  less  danger  but  that  some  day 
they'll  rise  up  in  war  against  society. 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  a  good  deal  of  all  this 
time,  and  labor,  and  money,  and  a  good  deal 
more  besides,  might  be  better  spent  in  provid- 
ing that  no  child  among  the  poor  grows  up  with- 
out proper  education,  technical  education  in 
useful  trades;  especially,  I  think,  in  scientific 
farming. 

"  If  the  rich  lived  simpler  and  less  showy,  the 
poor  wouldn't  envy  them  as  much,  nor  feel  as 
bitter  against  society,  and  the  money  that  was 
saved  could  be  pretty  well  invested  in  kinds  of 
education  that  would  cure  poverty  and  destitu- 
tion by  preventing  them,  and  the  people  that 
would  be  thrown  out  of  work  by  the  economies 
of  the  rich  might  be  a  good  deal  better  em- 


A   FARM   HAND  177 

ployed  in  more  productive  work.  It  seems  a 
pity,  anyway,  to  keep  people  at  practically  use- 
less labor,  when  the  brains  and  the  money  that 
keep  them  employed  in  that  way  might  be  used 
in  keeping  them  at  productive  labor,  and  it's  all 
the  greater  pity  as  long  as  there's  bitter  want  in 
the  world  for  the  necessaries  of  life." 

This,  in  substance,  is  what  he  said.  I  apolo- 
gize for  the  injustice  of  the  account,  its  vague- 
ness in  contrast  with  his  clearness,  its  circumlo- 
cutions in  contrast  with  his  crisp  sententiousness, 
its  weakened  renderings  of  his  vigorous  forms  of 
native  speech  ;  but  I  have  tried  to  suggest  it  all, 
and  to  give  the  sense  of  its  manly,  wholesome 
spirit. 

Under  the  stars  we  sat  talking  until  nearly 
midnight,  and,  quite  inevitably,  we  launched 
upon  the  subject  of  religion.  Mr.  Hill  appeared 
curiously  apathetic,  I  thought,  as  I  urged  what 
seemed  to  me  vital.  And  when,  at  the  end,  he 
narrowed  it  all  to  the  single  inquiry  as  to 
whether  I  believed  in  a  real  recognition  in  some 
future  life  among  those  who  have  loved  one 
another  here,  I  found  myself  wondering,  with 
a  feeling  of  disappointment,  at  so  wide  a  drift 
from  essentials,  on  the  part  of  a  mind  which  had 
impressed  me  as  so  natively  clear  and  strong. 
I  looked  up  in  my  surprise.  Even  in  the  star- 
12 


178  THE   WORKERS 

light  I  could  see  the  tears,  and  from  a  single 
halting  sentence,  I  got  the  hint  of  a  daughter 
dead  in  early  childhood,  and  of  a  sorrow  too 
deep  for  human  speech,  and  of  an  eager  ques- 
tioning of  the  future  that  was  the  soul's  one 
great  desire. 

"  For  now  we  see  through  a  glass,  darkly ;  but 
then  face  to  face ;  now  I  know  in  part,  but  then 
shall  I  know  even  as  also  I  am  known,"  was  all 
that  I  could  say  to  him,  and  I  went  to  bed  pity- 
ing myself  for  my  shallow  judgment,  and  my 
ignorance  of  life. 


CHAPTER  VI 

IN  A  LOGGING  CAMP 

FITZ-ADAMS'S  CAMP,  ENGLISH  CENTRE,  LTCOMING 
COUNTY,  PA.,  Tuesday,  October  27,  1891. 

IN  spite  of  the  fast-falling  rain,  Fitz- Adams, 
the  boss,  ordered  us  up  at  half-past  four,  as 
usual,  this  morning;  but  when  breakfast  was 
over,  the  rain  was  too  heavy  to  admit  of  our 
going  to  work.  Some  of  the  woodsmen  are  gone 
back  to  bed,  and  some  are  mending  their  clothes 
in  the  loft,  and  the  rest  of  the  gang  are  loafing 
in  the  "  lobby,"  smoking,  and  playing  what  they 
call  "  High,  low,  Jack  and  the  game,"  except 
Mike,  a  superb  young  Irishman,  who,  seated  on 
a  bench,  with  his  back  braced  against  the  win- 
dow-sill, is  reading  a  worn  paper  copy  of  one  of 
the  Duchess's  novels,  which  is  the  only  book 
that  I  have  so  far  seen  in  the  camp.  Jennie, 
the  head-cook  and  housekeeper,  has  given  me 
leave  to  write  at  one  of  the  long  tables  where 
the  gang  is  fed. 

It  is  a  relief  sometimes  to  get  away  from  the 
men.     There  may  be  ennui  that  is  more  soul- 
179 


180  THE   WORKERS 

destroying,  but  I  have  never  known  any  that 
caused  such  evidently  acute  suffering  as  the 
form  which  seizes  upon  workingmen  of  my 
class  in  hours  of  enforced  idleness.  When  the 
day's  work  is  done,  they  take  their  rest  as  a 
matter  of  course,  and  enjoy  it.  But  a  day  like 
this,  which  lays  them  off  from  work,  and  shuts 
them  within  doors,  furnishes  awful  evidence  of 
the  poverty  of  their  lives.  Most  of  the  men 
here  can  read,  but  not  to  one  of  them  is  reading 
a  resource.  The  men  at  play  are  in  blasphemous 
ill-temper  over  the  cards,  and  are,  apparently, 
on  the  brink  of  blows,  while  Mike  is  laboriously 
spelling  his  way  through  a  page,  and  nervously 
squirming  in  an  effort  to  find  a  comfortable  seat. 
And  I  know,  from  the  experience  of  Sundays,  in 
what  humor  the  men  will  come  down  to  dinner 
from  the  loft,  to  face  an  afternoon  of  eternal 
length  to  them,  which,  in  some  way,  must  be 
lived  through. 

I  note  the  contrast  with  their  normal  selves 
the  more,  because,  as  a  body  of  workmen,  this 
is  much  the  most  wholesomely  happy  company 
which  I  have  so  far  fallen  in  with.  We  are 
about  twenty  in  number,  a  curiously  assorted 
crew,  all  bred  to  the  roughest  life.  Far  up  in 
the  mountains,  miles  from  any  settlement,  we 
live  the  healthful  life  of  a  lumber  camp,  working 


IN  A   LOGGING   CAMP  181 

from  starlight  to  starlight ;  breathing  the  moun- 
tain-air, keen  with  the  frosty  vigor  of  autumn, 
and  fragrant  of  pine  and  hemlock ;  eating  raven- 
ously the  plain,  well-cooked  food  which  is  served 
to  us,  now  in  the  camp  and  now  on  the  mountain- 
side, where  we  sit  among  the  newly  stripped 
logs ;  sleeping  deeply  at  night  in  closely  crowded 
beds  in  the  cabin-loft,  where  the  wind  sweeps 
freely  from  end  to  end  through  the  gaping  chinks 
between  the  logs,  and  where,  on  rising,  we  some- 
times slip  out  of  bed  upon  a  carpeting  of  snow. 
This  is  the  life  which  these  men  know  and  which 
half-unconsciously  they  love,  breaking  from  it 
at  times,  in  a  passion  of  discontent,  and  spend- 
ing the  earnings  of  months  in  a  short,  wild  aban- 
don of  debauch,  but  always  coming  back  again, 
remorseful,  ashamed  to  meet  the  faces  of  the 
other  men,  yet  reviving  as  by  miracle  under  the 
touch  of  their  native  life.  They  charm  you  with 
their  freedom  of  spirit,  and  their  rude  sturdi- 
ness  of  character,  until  you  find  your  heart 
warming  to  them  with  a  real  affection,  and  feel- 
ing for  them  the  intimate  pain  of  personal  sor- 
row at  sight  of  their  cruel  limitations.  Away 
from  their  work,  their  one  notion  of  the  neces- 
sary accompaniment  to  leisure  is  money ;  and 
possessed  of  time  and  treasure,  their  first  in- 
stinctive reach  is  after  liquor  and  lust. 


182  THE   WORKERS 

Even  now  as  Fitz-Adams  and  his  brother,  in 
yellow  oil-cloth  coats  and  wide  tarpaulins,  set 
out  through  the  pouring  rain  in  an  open  rig  for 
English  Centre,  there  is  a  chorus  of  voices  from 
the  door  and  windows  of  the  cabin,  shouting 
to  them  to  bring  back  whiskey  and  plenty  of  it. 
If  they  do,  and  the  rain  continues,  only  God 
knows  what  the  camp  will  be  to-night. 

It  is  sixty  miles,  I  should  judge,  from  Pleas- 
ant Hill  to  "Williamsport,  and  it  proved  a  two 
days'  march.  Although  the  distance  covered 
must  have  been  about  the  same  on  both  days, 
the  difference  that  they  each  presented  in  act- 
ual experience  of  the  journey  was  of  the  kind- 
of  contrast  which  a  wayfarer  must  expect. 

Monday  was  a  faultless  autumn  day.  The  air 
was  quick,  and  the  roads  were  in  good  condition, 
and  I  was  feeling  fit,  and  was  "passing  rich" 
with  three  dollars  and  seventy-five  cents,  the 
wages  of  five  days  on  the  farm. 

The  region  through  which  I  walked  was  typi- 
cal of  the  open  country  of  the  Middle  States. 
Over  its  rolling  surface  was  the  varied  arrange- 
ment of  wood  and  field  and  pasture-land,  with 
the  farmers'  houses  and  barns  attesting  separate 
possession.  There  were  frequent  brooks  and 
narrow  winding  country  roads ;  roads  lined  with 


IN  A  LOGGING  CAMP  183 

zigzag  rail  fences  and  loose  stone  walls,  along 
which  dwarfed  birches  grew,  and  elderberry 
bushes,  and  sumach,  with  wild  grape-vines  and 
clematis  creeping  on  the  walls;  while  in  the 
coarse  turf  on  the  banks,  there  blossomed  im- 
mortelles, and  purple  aster,  and  golden-rod. 

Mr.  Hill  had  given  me  clear  directions.  At 
the  post-office  of  Irish  Lane  I  turned  sharply 
toward  Marshall's  Hollow,  and  passed  on  the  way 
a  camp-meeting  ground,  where  deep  in  the  shad- 
ows of  a  grove  stood  numbers  of  rough  wooden 
huts ;  grouped  in  chance  community,  and  little 
suggesting  in  the  weird  stillness  of  desertion, 
the  sounds  of  revival  worship,  with  which  they 
are  made  to  ring  through  a  part  of  every  sum- 
mer. At  Harveyville  I  turned  abruptly  up  the 
hillside  in  the  direction  of  Cambra.  It  was  high 
noon  when  I  reached  that  village,  and  I  was  but 
a  few  miles  beyond  it,  on  the  way  to  Benton, 
when  I  stopped  to  get  something  to  eat.  It 
was  the  evident  poverty  of  the  house  where  I 
stopped  that  interested  me.  I  knew  that  there 
was  no  hope  of  earning  a  meal  at  such  a  place, 
but  I  could  pay  for  what  I  ate,  and  I  was  sure 
of  being  less  of  an  annoyance  there  than  at  some 
well-to-do  farmer's  house. 

The  cottage  was  an  unpainted  wooden  shell, 
and,  like  it,  the  corn-crib  and  pig-pen  and  little 


184  THE   WORKERS 

barn  beyond  seemed  tottering  to  a  fall.  Faded 
leaves  of  a  woodbine,  that  climbed  upon  the  cot- 
tage, were  thick  about  the  door-way,  and  lay 
strewn  by  the  wind  upon  the  bare  floor  within. 
There  was  but  one  room  on  the  ground  floor,  and 
a  stove  and  a  sewing-machine  and  a  small  wood- 
en chest  were  all  its  furniture.  I  knocked  at  the 
open  door.  Through  an  opposite  one,  com- 
municating with  a  lean-to,  a  woman  appeared. 
She  was  large  and  muscular,  but  in  her  face  was 
the  sickly  pallor  of  ill-nourishment,  and  her  hair 
was  dishevelled,  and  the  loose,  ragged  dress 
which  she  wore  was  covered  with  dark,  greasy 
stains. 

I  asked  for  bread  and  milk;  she  explained 
that  the  family  had  just  finished  dinner,  but  that 
she  could  give  me  something,  if  I  would  wait, 
and  she  invited  me  to  a  seat  on  the  chest. 

I  drew  from  my  pack  an  unfinished  newspa- 
per, and  as  I  read  I  could  feel  innumerable  eyes 
upon  me.  Through  the  cracks  in  the  door,  and 
the  ragged  breaks  in  the  plaster,  came  the  in- 
quisitive gaze  of  children's  eyes,  and  I  could 
hear  their  eager  whispers  as  a  swarm  of  chil- 
dren crowded  one  another  for  possession  of  the 
best  peep-holes. 

Their  mother  asked  me  in,  and  set  before  me, 
on  a  table  littered  with  remnants  of  dinner,  a 


IN  A  LOGGING  CAMP  185 

pitcher  of  fresh  milk  and  some  huge  slices  of 
coarse  bread,  a  large  yellow  bowl,  and  a  pewter 
tablespoon.  The  children  stared  at  me  as  I  ate, 
and  I  tried  to  form  an  accurate  estimate  of  their 
number,  but  despaired  when,  after  I  thought 
that  I  had  distinguished  eight,  I  found  my  esti- 
mate upset  by  sudden  apparitions  of  faces  hith- 
erto unrecognized.  The  oldest  child  seemed 
not  more  than  twelve,  and  the  youngest  lay 
asleep  in  a  cradle  near  the  stove,  where  its 
mother  could  rock  it  as  she  worked.  They  all 
were  as  ragged  and  dirty  as  the  children  of  the 
slums,  but  they  had  nothing  of  the  vivacity  of 
these,  nor  of  the  quick  adjustment  to  changing 
circumstances  which  gives  to  children,  bred 
upon  the  street,  their  first  hold  upon  your  in- 
terest. 

Stolid  and  wide-eyed  they  stood  about  the 
room,  intently  watching  me,  moving  here  and 
there  for  new  points  of  view ;  until  their  mother, 
who  had  showed  no  wish  to  talk  as  she  washed 
the  dishes,  now  broke  the  silence  with  a  sounding 
cuff  upon  the  ear  of  a  little  boy,  as,  with  a  loud 
command,  she  sent  him  sobbing  into  the  back 
yard  to  fetch  her  wood. 

The  children  scattered  instantly,  except  a  little 
girl  with  flaxen  hair  and  grotesquely  dirty  face, 
who  clung  to  her  mother's  skirts,  and  seemed  to 


186  THE   WOEKEES 

hamper  her  immeasurably ;  the  more  so  as  the 
baby  had  wakened  in  the  noise,  and  had  begun 
to  cry.  I  grew  sick  with  fear  of  what  was  com- 
ing next,  but  the  mother's  mood  had  changed ; 
for  catching  the  crying  baby  in  her  arms,  she 
almost  smothered  it  with  kisses,  and  sitting 
down  she  fondled  it,  and  gently  stroked  the  head 
of  the  child  beside  her. 

It  was  a  veritable  country  slum,  with  nearly 
all  the  barren  squalor  of  a  crowded  tenement. 
You  thought  of  life  in  it  as  some  hard  necessity, 
from  which  all  choice  and  spontaneity  are  gone. 
And  so  in  great  part  it  must  have  been,  and  the 
wonder  was  the  stronger  at  sight  of  the  instinct 
of  mother  love,  springing  like  a  living  fountain 
in  an  arid  plain. 

The  village  of  Benton  wore  a  preoccupied  air 
when  I  entered  it.  I  soon  found  the  cause  in  an 
auction  sale  of  horses  in  the  stable-yard  of  the 
tavern.  The  horses  huddled  close,  as  if  for 
common  protection,  in  an  angle  formed  by  the 
buildings.  They  were  watched  by  a  mounted 
rider,  whose  duty  it  was  to  prevent  any  from 
breaking  loose.  A  small  crowd  of  farmers  and 
village  men,  all  of  them  coatless  and  in  their 
working  clothes,  formed  a  semicircle  about  the 
animals.  The  surrounding  doors  and  windows 
were  full  of  women's  faces,  alive  with  interest  in 


IN  A   LOGGING   CAMP  187 

the  progress  of  events;  and  children  perched 
upon  the  fences,  or  dodged  in  and  out  among 
the  groups  of  men.  A  fat  and  ruddy  auctioneer 
walked  back  and  forth  excitedly  before  the 
crowd,  loudly  repeating  a  call  for  bids ;  or  hav- 
ing caught  one,  running  it  rapidly  through 
changes  of  inflection  and  intonation,  until  a 
fresh  bid  started  him  anew  on  his  flight  of  vary- 
ing tones,  which  ended  at  last  in  the  dying 
cadences  of  "  Going !  going !  gone ! " 

Presently  I  found  a  man  who  was  so  far  un- 
occupied by  the  sale  as  to  have  leisure  to  direct 
me  on  my  way.  Taking  his  advice  I  started  for 
Union  Church  and  Unityville.  In  the  outskirts 
of  Benton,  as  I  left  the  village,  an  urchin  sat 
upon  the  door-step  of  a  cottage,  idly  beating 
about  him  with  a  stick,  consoling  himself  ap- 
parently as  best  he  could  for  not  having  been 
allowed  to  go  to  the  sale.  The  sight  of  a  tramp 
with  a  pack  upon  his  back  diverted  him ;  and 
far  as  the  sound  could  carry  there  came  follow- 
ing me,  as  I  climbed  the  hill  beyond  the  village, 
his  shouts  of  "  Git  there,  Eli ! " 

The  contrast  with  Monday's  march  appeared 
at  once  on  Tuesday  morning.  The  clouds  which 
were  threatening  when  I  made  an  early  start 
grew  more  threatening  while  I  walked  on,  and 
they  broke  in  torrents  of  rain  as  I  entered 


188  THE   WOEKEES 

Lairds  ville,  with  Williamsport  still  twenty -four 
miles  away. 

A  tavern  gave  me  shelter,  but  presently  the 
rain  slackened  and  I  made  up  my  mind  to  push 
on  to  Williamsport  in  spite  of  the  storm,  for  my 
letters  were  there ;  and  once  on  the  road  with 
your  mail  definitely  in  view,  you  grow  highly 
impatient  of  delays. 

An  hour's  rain  had  worked  great  changes  in 
the  roads.  Hard  and  dusty  when  I  set  out  in 
the  early  morning,  they  were  quagmires  now 
and  were  running  with  muddy  streams.  The 
rain  pelted  my  face  and  dripped  through  my 
ragged  hat,  and  trickled  down  my  back  and 
washed  into  my  boots.  I  was  a  dangerous- 
looking  vagrant  when  I  reached  Hughesville  at 
noon.  I  walked  rapidly  through  the  village 
street  in  some  fear  of  arrest,  but  the  storm  had 
passed,  and  I  soon  learned  the  road  to  Williams- 
port  by  way  of  Hall's  Landing. 

Splashing  wearily  along  the  heavy  roads  with 
that  awful  load  chafing  my  back,  I  knew  vaguely 
that  I  was  passing  through  an  exceedingly  rich 
and  beautiful  farming  region,  but  my  interest 
was  all  in  the  surest  footing  to  be  found,  and  it 
was  with  glad  relief  that  late  in  the  afternoon  I 
stepped  upon  the  solid  pavements  of  the  town. 

I  had  been  told,  on  the  road,  of  a  laborer's 


IN   A   LOGGING  CAMP  189 

cottage  in  Church  Street  where  cheap  board  and 
lodging  could  be  had.  From  the  post-office  I 
readily  found  my  way  to  this  cottage,  and  was 
soon  propped  up  in  bed  reading  my  letters, 
while  the  laborer's  wife  hung  up  my  clothes  to 
dry  in  the  kitchen  and  put  my  boots  under  the 
stove. 

In  the  morning  all  the  brilliance  of  the  clear, 
cold  autumn  had  returned.  It  was  such  a  day 
as  seems  to  emerge  renewed  with  fresh  and  am- 
ple vigor  from  the  cleansing  of  a  storm. 

The  streets  presented  a  really  singular  pict- 
ure. The  town  itself  is  the  conventional  Amer- 
ican, provincial,  manufacturing  centre,  with  its 
business  portion  built  up  in  "brick  blocks," 
which  are  innocent  of  any  attraction  but  utility. 
From  this  quarter  it  shades  gradually,  in  one 
direction,  into  the  workshops  and  cottages  of 
the  region  of  the  proletariat,  and  in  another  into 
the  wide,  well-shaded  avenues  where  are  the 
somewhat  ostentatious  homes  and  churches  of 
the  well-to-do. 

Long  lines  of  booths  now  crowded  the  curves 
about  the  central  public  square  and  reached  far 
down  the  communicating  streets.  In  these 
booths  the  farming  people  of  the  surrounding 
country  sold  their  fruits  and  garden  vegetables, 
and  butter  and  eggs  and  poultry ;  and  white- 


190  THE   WORKERS 

aproned  butchers  spread  their  meats  in  tempt- 
ing array.  It  was  an  Oriental  bazaar  in  all  but 
color  and  the  highly  pitched  jabber  of  Eastern 
bargaining.  But  still  more  perfect  as  a  repro- 
duction of  foreign  scenes  were  the  groups  of 
women  who,  with  colored  shawls  tied  round 
their  heads  and  falling  about  their  shoulders,  sat 
on  the  steps  of  public  buildings  with  baskets  of 
provisions  about  them  and  talked  among  them- 
selves, and  came  to  terms  with  customers  in 
their  oddly  mixed  vernacular. 

It  recalled  at  once  the  Platz  of  a  German  city 
thronged  by  peasant  women  on  market  days, 
only  here,  too,  was  a  lack  of  color.  The  women 
were  unmistakably  Teutonic.  All  had  the  gen- 
erous contour  of  countenance  which  approaches 
to  a  family  likeness  in  a  whole  race  of  peasantry, 
but  the  red  of  the  old  country  complexion  had 
faded  to  our  prevailing  pallor. 

In  spite  of  a  large  foreign  element,  or  in  virtue 
of  it,  I  do  not  know  which,  the  town  itself  is  ag- 
gressively American.  The  fact  that  some  hun- 
dreds of  million  feet  of  lumber  come  each  year 
from  its  mills  gives  to  it  great  importance  as 
a  lumber  centre.  And  the  good  fortune  of  this 
form  of  industry  the  city  certainly  shows  in  its 
freedom  from  the  usual  begriming  effects  of 
manufacture  on  a  large  scale. 


IN  A   LOGGING   CAMP  191 

In  one  of  the  morning  papers  of  the  town  I 
found  the  spirit  of  the  place  expressed  in  a  re- 
ported speech  of  a  local  celebrity,  an  ex-member 
of  Congress.  The  chief  burden  of  it  was  the 
note  of  congratulation  to  the  people  of  the 
town  on  their  progress  and  prosperity,  as  indi- 
cated in  their  electric  lights  and  rapid  transit 
system,  and  in  their  growing  industries  and  in- 
creasing numbers,  which,  he  declared,  "  had 
passed  the  stopping-point." 

But  I  must  hurry  on.  Early  on  Friday  after- 
noon, October  9th,  I  set  out  from  Williamsport, 
with  Oil  City  as  my  next  objective  point.  I 
had  no  money,  but  this  did  not  disturb  me,  for 
I  was  entering  the  open  country  and  felt  sure  of 
finding  work.  The  road  lay  along  the  fertile 
river  bottom  and  then  began  to  climb  the  range 
of  hills  which  walls  in  the  valley  on  the  north. 
The  lasting  impression  here  is  of  a  region  of 
most  uncommon  natural  wealth.  Many  square 
miles  of  farms  come  into  the  range  of  vision  ; 
the  soil  looks  like  a  deep,  rich  loam.  And  a  like 
impression  comes  to  you  from  the  opposite  bank 
of  the  river,  where  the  land  lies  flat  to  the  foot 
of  the  southern  range  of  hills. 

From  such  a  vantage  ground  you  see  at  a 
glance  how  the  river,  shut  in  by  these  barriers, 
could  have  risen  to  so  great  a  height  in  the 


192  THE   WORKERS 

flood  of  1889  and  have  worked  such  appalling 
disaster. 

There  are  constant  references  to  "  the  flood " 
among  the  inhabitants  of  the  valley,  and  it 
plainly  holds  for  them  the  place  of  a  chronolog- 
ical mark  not  unlike  that  held  farther  East  by 
the  "  blizzard"  of  1888,  only  it  sounds  not  a  lit- 
tle odd  at  first  to  hear  common  reference  to 
antediluvian  events. 

Presently  I  came  to  a  road  which  forked  at 
Linden  to  the  right,  and  made  in  the  direction 
of  a  gap  in  the  hills.  Its  general  course  seemed 
westward,  and  so  I  followed  it.  An  hour  or  two 
later  it  had  led  me  into  a  forest,  where  the 
sunlight  was  fast  fading.  I  was  intent  on  the 
question  of  finding  work  before  nightfall,  when 
I  heard  the  rumble  of  wheels  behind  me,  and  a 
voice  singing  a  German  song. 

I  looked  up  as  the  wagon  came  alongside. 
The  horses  were  walking  slowly  up  the  hill,  and 
a  young  man  lounged  at  leisure  on  the  seat. 
His  legs  were  crossed,  and  the  reins  lay  loosely 
in  one  hand.  A  light,  wide-brimmed  felt  hat 
was  pushed  back  on  his  crown,  and  from  under 
the  rim  the  yellow  hair  rested  on  his  forehead. 
He  was  singing  from  sheer  lightness  of  heart;  and 
young  and  strong  and  handsome  as  he  was,  he 
made  you  think  of  Alvary  in  his  part  of  Siegfried. 


IN   A   LOGGING   CAMP  193 

"  Have  a  ride  ?  "  he  called  to  me,  and  there 
was  no  trace  of  foreign  accent  in  his  speech. 

"Thank  you,"  I  said;  and  in  another  moment 
my  pack  was  in  the  bottom  of  the  wagon  and  I 
on  the  seat  beside  the  driver. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?  " 

"  I'm  looking  for  a  job." 

"  You  want  work  on  a  farm  ?  " 

"  Yes,  that  or  any  other  kind  of  work  that  I 
can  get." 

"Well,  there  ain't  much  doing  on  the  farms 
now.  I  don't  know  nobody  that's  looking  for  a 
hired  man.  There's  Abe  Potter,  I  heard  him 
say  as  how  he  wanted  to  hire  a  man  to  work  for 
him  all  winter ;  but  Miss'  Potter,  she  told  my 
wife  last  night  that  he'd  got  Jim  Hale's  boy,  Al, 
to  live  out  to  him.  Say,  did  you  ever  work  in 
the  woods?" 

"  No." 

"  Well,  there's  plenty  of  work  in  the  woods. 
It's  a  rough  life,  but  it  ain't  so  bad  when  you're 
used  to  it.  I  worked  in  the  woods  before  I  was 
married.  I  could  go  out  to  the  woods  now,  and 
earn  two  dollars  a  day  and  my  keep  ;  but  my 
wife  wouldn't  let  me.  And  it's  a  pretty  rough 
life,  only  I  come  to  like  it.  But  I've  got  my 
farm  now,  and  my  wife  and  children  ;  and  her 
old  folks  lives  with  us,  and  I've  got  to  stay  to 
13 


194  THE   WOBKERS 

home,  and  take  care  of  things.  Say,  where  are 
you  going  to-night  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  I'll  try  to  find  some  place  to 
stay  where  I  can  help  with  the  work  to  pay  for 
my  keep ;  and  then  to-morrow  I'll  go  to  the 
woods,  and  try  to  get  a  job." 

"  I  tell  you,  stranger,  you  stay  at  my  house 
to-night,  and  in  the  morning  you  can  go  to  Eng- 
lish Centre.  I  guess  you'll  get  a  job  on  one  of 
the  camps." 

My  thanks  could  have  expressed  but  little  of 
the  gratitude  I  felt.  I  shared  his  light-hearted 
mood  at  once,  and  was  a  very  interested  and  at- 
tentive listener  to  the  narrative  of  his  early  life ; 
his  disagreements  with  his  father,  and  how  he 
had  inherited  the  farm  from  him  burdened  with 
debt,  but  had  almost  paid  the  mortgages,  and 
had  his  eye  now  upon  a  neighbor's  farm  with  a 
view  to  purchasing  that. 

He  was  singing  again  as  we  drove  up  the  lane 
toward  his  home,  and  was  plainly  expectant. 
The  cause  was  clear  when  two  children,  a  girl 
and  boy  of  about  six  and  four,  came  running 
toward  the  wagon,  with  excited  cries  of  wel- 
come. They  drew  up  sharply  at  sight  of  a 
stranger,  and  their  father  loudly  greeted  them 
with  a  medley  of  affectionate  diminutives  in 
English  and  German,  until  they  lost  their  fear, 


IN   A   LOGGING   CAMP  195 

and  began  to  talk  rapidly  with  him  in  the 
quaintest  German,  which  sounded  as  though  it 
might  be  one  Avith  the  strange  dialects  which 
you  see  in  Fliegende  Blatter. 

I  helped  to  unhitch  the  horses,  and  then 
asked  whether  there  was  more  that  I  could  do. 
There  were  apples  to  be  picked  up  from  under 
the  trees  in  the  orchard,  and  I  worked  at  this 
task  until  dark,  when  there  came  the  call  to 
supper. 

After  that  meal  the  children  were  put  to  bed, 
and  the  rest  of  us  gathered  in  the  kitchen,  where 
a  large  open  fire  burned,  and  an  oil-lamp  lent 
its  light.  An  "  apple-butter  making  "  was  to  be 
the  feature  of  the  next  day's  work,  and  we  spent 
the  evening  in  getting  ready  for  it. 

We  sat  in  a  semicircle  in  front  of  the  fire, 
first  the  farmer's  wife,  and  then  the  patriarchal 
grandfather,  who  was  almost  deaf,  and  was 
known  to  all  the  household  by  the  not  eupho- 
nious name  of  "  Gross-pap,"  and  next  to  him  the 
grandmother,  and  last  the  guest.  The  farmer 
himself  sat  at  a  table  near  us,  briskly  working 
an  apple-peeler,  while  the  rest  of  us  removed 
the  cores,  and  cut  the  apples  into  small  sec- 
tions. 

It  was  a  very  comfortable  place  which  I 
seemed  to  have  found  in  the  household.  I  was 


196  THE   WORKERS 

taken  in  with  natural  hospitality,  and  the  family 
life  moved  on  unhampered  by  my  presence, 
while  I,  a  welcome  guest,  could  sit  and  watch  it 
at  my  ease. 

The  old  man  had  every  excuse  for  silence, 
and  he  and  his  wife  spoke  rarely,  and  always  in 
their  native  tongue,  but  they  evidently  under- 
stood English  perfectly.  The  farmer  and  his 
wife  spoke  English  to  each  other,  and  spoke  it 
as  though  born  to  its  use,  but  they  used  that 
quaint  German  dialect  in  talking  with  the  old 
people  and  the  children. 

The  wife  was  a  plain  woman,  inclined  to  fret- 
fulness,  I  thought,  and  she  had  a  certain  air  with 
her  husband,  which  is  not  uncommon  to  plain 
women  whose  husbands  are  distinctly  handsome. 
She  had  little  to  say,  but  she  listened  attentively 
to  the  farmer's  talk. 

He  was  entertainment  for  us  all.  Good-look- 
ing, high-spirited,  manly  fellow — in  perfect  un- 
consciousness of  self,  he  talked  on  with  the 
genial  freedom  of  a  true  man  of  the  world. 

His  trip  to  Williamsport  was  a  fruitful  theme, 
and  no  least  event  of  the  journey  was  without 
its  interest.  He  told  us  of  the  neighbors  whom 
he  met  on  the  road,  and  all  of  his  conjectures 
regarding  their  probable  errands.  He  had  taken 
a  load  of  vegetables  to  town,  and  now  recounted 


IN   A   LOGGING   CAMP  197 

every  sale  and  purchase,  for  he  had  been  charged 
with  many  commissions.  One  was  the  purchase 
of  braid  for  his  wife's  new  dress.  He  was  full 
of  good-humor  at  each  fresh  departure  in  his 
tale ;  but,  for  some  reason,  the  story  of  this  last 
commission  pleased  him  most.  With  high  re- 
gard for  circumstantial  detail,  he  told  it  to  us  at 
least  five  times,  and  ended  every  narrative  with 
a  beaming  smile,  and  the  unvarying  remark  that 
"  I'd  have  got  it  wider  if  I'd  only  known,"  to 
which  his  wife  replied  each  time  with  unfalter- 
ing insistence  upon  the  last  word:  "But  you 
might  have  known." 

In  the  morning  he  was  as  cheerful  as  on  the 
night  before,  and  he  put  me  in  high  spirits 
as,  with  many  good  wishes  for  my  success,  he 
told  me  again  how  sure  he  was  that  I  could  find 
work  in  the  woods. 

At  Salladasburg  I  stopped  for  further  direc- 
tions about  the  way  to  English  Centre ;  and  the 
tavern-keeper,  at  whose  door  I  inquired,  con- 
firmed me  strongly  in  my  expectation  of  ready 
employment. 

An  old  plank  road  lead  me  through  a  moun- 
tain-pass, and  along  the  course  of  a  stream,  far 
into  the  interior.  The  earlier  miles  of  the  march 
were  among  mountains  that  had  long  been 
stripped  of  all  valuable  timber,  and  that  now 


198  THE  WORKERS 

stood  ragged  and  uncouth  in  their  new  growths, 
and  in  the  blackened  remnants  of  forest  fires. 

Here  there  were  a  few  scattered  farms ;  stony 
and  of  thin  soil,  where,  for  fences,  uptorn  stumps 
of  trees  had  been  placed  side  by  side,  with  their 
twisted  roots  so  interwoven  as  to  form  an  im- 
penetrable barrier. 

A  caravan  of  gypsies  met  and  passed  me  ;  but 
except  for  these,  the  road  was  almost  deserted, 
and  seemed  to  be  leading  into  yet  lonelier  regions. 

Mountains  now  succeeded,  on  which  the  for- 
ests were  untouched,  and  which,  in  autumn  col- 
ors, were  like  huge  mounds  of  foliage  plant,  so 
richly  did  the  gorgeous  hues  of  the  maple-trees 
and  chestnuts  and  beeches  blend  with  the  dark 
greens  of  hemlock  and  pine. 

At  a  little  after  noon  I  came  quite  suddenly 
upon  an  iron  bridge  that  crossed  the  wide  bed  of 
a  mountain-stream,  which  was  little  more  than  a 
brook  now,  but  gave  evidence  of  rising,  at  times, 
to  the  volume  and  strength  of  a  torrent.  A  large 
tavern  stood  near  the  bridge,  and  beyond  it, 
to  the  right,  was  a  huge  tannery  which  plainly 
provided  the  chief  industry  of  the  place.  The 
village  street  was  lined  with  rows  of  wooden  cot- 
tages, each  an  unpainted  duplicate  of  its  neigh- 
bor, and  all  eloquent,  I  thought,  of  the  monotony 
of  the  life  which  they  held. 


IN  A   LOGGING   CAMP  199 

I  went  at  once  to  the  post-office,  and  there 
learned  that  ray  journey  was  by  no  means  at  an 
end  ;  for  the  lumber  camps  were  yet  some  miles 
farther  in  the  mountains.  The  camp  of  "  "Wolf 
Bun  "  was  mentioned  as  an  important  one,  where 
work  was  plenty,  and  I  set  out  at  once  for  that. 

I  was  tired  and  not  a  little  hungry ;  for  this 
mountain-air  acts  always  as  a  whet  upon  your 
appetite,  and  I  had  eaten  nothing  since  the 
early  morning,  and  had  already  walked  some 
fifteen  miles.  But  the  camp  road,  although 
rough,  was  easy  to  follow,  and  I  found  much 
satisfaction  in  dramatizing  my  approach  to  some 
short-handed  employer,  who  would  take  me  on  at 
once.  I  dwelt  longingly  on  supper  and  a  restful 
night  and  Sunday  in  the  camp,  and  thought 
hopefully  of  the  work  to  be  begun  on  Monday 
morning. 

And  then  there  was  a  peculiar  interest  in 
meeting  lumbermen  on  the  way.  Some  were 
teamsters,  who  sat  high  in  air  on  top  of  immense 
loads  of  bark,  which  they  were  carting  to  the 
tannery.  Many  of  these  wore  wide  sombreros, 
and  jackets  made  of  blanket  stuff  in  gay  plaids. 
Others  were  on  foot,  small  companies  of  four 
and  five  together,  walking  to  the  village,  for  it 
was  Saturday  afternoon. 

I  was  prepared  for  some  degree  of  roughness 


200  THE   WORKEES 

in  a  lumber  camp,  and  in  the  woodsmen  them, 
selves,  but  there  was  something  in  the  appear- 
ance of  these  men  whom  I  met  that  hinted  at 
my  not  having  guessed  all  the  truth.  I  judged 
of  roughness  by  what  I  knew  of  the  gang  at 
"West  Point,  and  in  the  sewer  ditch  at  the  Asy- 
lum, but  here  was  something  of  a  widely  different 
kind  from  the  hardness  of  broken-spirited,  time- 
serving laborers.  Instinctively  you  knew  these 
men  for  men ;  and  I  respectfully  kept  silence, 
and  looked  to  them  for  greeting,  and  got  none. 

"When  you,  a  total  stranger,  try  to  meet  the 
questioning  gaze  of  five  strong  men  at  once,  all 
of  them  sturdy  and  lean,  and  deeply  lined  in 
face  and  keen  of  eye,  there  is  bred  in  you  a  vague 
unease,  not  of  fear,  but  an  answering  to  that 
wonder  as  to  what  you  are  and  what  you  are  do- 
ing there.  I  was  conscious  then  only  of  the  dis- 
turbing of  my  earlier  confidence  in  entering  the 
woods.  I  could  not  analyze  the  look  which 
met  me,  but  now  I  know  it  for  meaning,  reft  of 
its  strongest  words,  "  Who  in  -  -  are  you  ? 
Gospel  sharks  we  know,  and  camp  cooks,  and 
honest  Jew  pedlers  who  get  our  wages  from  us 
for  their  brass-gold  watches  and  glass  jewels, 

but  such  a !-    -!  -    -!-    -!  -    -! ! 

as  you,  we  never  saw  before." 

It  was  about  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  when 


IN   A   LOGGING   CAMP  201 

a  turn  in  the  mountain-road  brought  to  view  a 
cluster  of  log-cabins,  which  I  knew  to  be  the 
camp  of  Wolf  Kun.  The  cabins  were  splendid 
buildings  of  their  kind.  The  logs  were  clean 
and  fresh  and  were  securely  fitted,  while  the 
chinks  were  well  plastered  with  mud,  and  the 
roofs  tightly  shingled,  and  the  gables  closely 
boarded-up. 

No  one  was  in  sight  from  where  I  stood  ;  but 
there  issued,  from  one  of  the  smaller  cabins,  the 
ring  of  a  blacksmith's  hammer,  and  I  found  a 
group  of  men  about  the  cabin-door. 

The  camp  stood  in  a  little  clearing  on  the 
mountain;  and  in  contrast  with  the  shadowy 
gloom  in  the  forest  around  it,  the  sunlight 
flooded  this  open  rift  with  concentrated  light. 
The  chestnut-trees  on  the  edge  of  the  wood 
shone  like  burnished  gold,  and  the  maple  leaves, 
still  green,  nearest  to  the  trees,  and  but  lightly 
touched  with  red  along  the  boughs,  deepened 
gradually,  until,  in  the  full  sunlight,  they  blazed 
in  crimson  splendor.  It  was  still  with  the  still- 
ness of  autumn,  and  the  sound  of  the  black- 
smith's stroke  and  the  answering  ring  of  the 
anvil  were  echoed  far  into  the  forest,  where  you 
could  hear,  fretting  down  its  stony  bed,  a  moun- 
tain-stream, which,  in  the  speech  of  the  lumber- 
men, is  called  a  "  run." 


202  THE   WORKERS 

I  had  slipped  the  pack  from  my  back,  and 
carrying  it  in  my  hand  I  went  up  to  a  group  of 
men.  One  of  them  stood  leaning  against  the 
door-post.  He  was  very  tall  and  straight,  and 
under  his  wide  sombrero,  the  upper  forehead 
was  white  and  smooth  as  a  girl's.  The  brows 
were  arched  above  dark-brown  eyes,  and  his 
nose  was  straight  and  sharply  chiselled;  the 
cheeks  were  lean  and  ruddy  brown  ;  and  under 
a  light  mustache  was  a  clean  -  cut,  shapely 
mouth  that  answered  in  strength  to  a  well- 
rounded,  slightly  protruding  chin.  His  hands 
were  thrust  into  the  side-pockets  of  a  bright 
blanket  jacket,  and  his  dark  trousers  were 
tucked  into  a  pair  of  top-boots,  that  were  laced 
over  the  insteps  and  up  the  outer  sides  of  the 
legs. 

All  the  men  were  eying  me  with  that  disturb- 
ing look ;  even  the  blacksmith  had  quit  his 
work  and  joined  them.  In  the  questioning  si- 
lence I  summoned  what  courage  I  had,  and 
walked  up  to  young  Achilles  at  the  cabin-door, 
and  thus  addressed  him  : 

"  Is  this  the  camp  of  Wolf  Eun  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Is  Mr.  Benton  here  ?  "  [Benton  is  my  ver- 
sion of  the  superintendent's  name.] 

"  No,  he's  in  English  Centre." 


IN   A   LOGGING  CAMP  203 

"  Is  the  camp  boss  here  ?  "  [That  was  a  rash 
plunge  on  my  part,  but  it  was  successful.] 

"  Yes,  that's  him,''  and  Achilles'  head  nodded 
slightly  in  the  direction  of  the  largest  cabin. 
From  the  door  nearest  us  there  stepped  an 
elderly  man  of  massive  frame,  bent  slightly  for- 
ward, and  with  arms  so  long  that  the  hands 
seemed  to  reach  to  his  knees.  He  was  dressed 
in  an  old  suit  of  dark  material — a  long-tailed 
coat  that  fitted  very  loosely,  and  baggy  trousers 
— and  a  soiled  linen  shirt  and  collar,  and  a  black 
ribbon  necktie.  His  face  was  very  set  and 
stern,  not  with  an  expression  of  unkindness, 
simply  the  face  of  a  man  to  whom  life  is  a  seri- 
ous matter,  and  who  means  business  all  the 
time. 

He  was  evidently  absorbed,  and,  carrying  an 
iron  bar,  he  was  about  to  enter  the  forge  with  no 
least  notice  of  any  of  us,  when  I  interrupted  him. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  I  understand  that 
you  are  the  boss." 

He  stood  still,  and  looked  down  upon  me  out 
ot  keen  black  eyes  from  under  shaggy  brows 
that  bristled  with  coarse  hairs  ;  and  in  the  deep- 
ening silence,  I  wondered  what  I  should  say 
next. 

"  I'm  looking  for  a  job,  and  I  heard  in  Eng- 
lish Centre  that  men  were  wanted  here." 


204  THE   WORKERS 

"Have  you  ever  worked  in  the  woods?" 

"  No." 

"  Then  you'll  not  get  work  in  the  woods  this 
side  of  hell." 

He  moved  on  at  once,  and  the  blacksmith  fol- 
lowed him  into  the  shop.  I  was  left  standing 
in  the  midst  of  the  other  men,  who  had  listened 
intently,  and  were  now  soberly  enjoying  the 
quality  of  that  bon  mot,  and  were  eyeing  me  in 
leisurely  curiosity. 

Again  I  appealed  to  Achilles: 

"  Is  there  another  camp  near  here  ?  " 

"  There's  Long's  Camp,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  up 
the  run,"  and  a  slight  inclination  of  his  head  in- 
dicated the  way. 

Mr.  Long  did  not  want  me,  and  knew  of  no 
one  who  might,  if  I  was  not  wanted  at  Wolf 
Run,  unless,  on  second  thought,  I  could  get  a 
job  at  Fitz- Adams's  Camp. 

"  And  where  is  that  ?  "  I  asked. 

"You  remember  a  road  which  forked  to  the 
left  about  two  mile  back  as  you  came  up  from 
English  Centre?" 

"Yes." 

"  "Well,  you  follow  that  road  about  two  mile 
and  a  half,  and  you'll  come  to  Fitz- Adams's 
Camp." 

The  road  was  the  roughest  that  I  had  so  far 


IN   A   LOGGING   CAMP  205 

travelled.  It  cut  its  way  along  the  sheer  side  of 
the  mountain,  following  the  course  of  the  run. 
Presently  I  came  to  a  small  log  cabin,  where,  in 
a  little  yard  beside  it,  a  cow  was  munching 
straw,  and  in  front,  a  fat  sow  wallowed  in  a 
pool  in  the  middle  of  the  road.  An  old  Irish- 
man, who  sat  on  the  door-step,  told  me  that  I 
was  not  half  a  mile  from  the  camp. 

There  was  a  stout  log  dam  on  the  run  a  little 
farther  up,  but  the  gates  were  open  and  only  a 
slender  stream  flowed  through  the  muddy  bot- 
tom, for  the  dam  was  undergoing  repairs.  Near 
by  was  a  cabin  large  enough  for  a  score  of 
lumbermen. 

The  sun  had  sunk  behind  the  mountain  a 
good  half  hour  before;  not  even  the  trees  on 
the  summits  were  lighted  up  with  its  setting 
rays,  and  the  still,  clear  air  bit  you  with  a  sud- 
den chill.  All  the  confidence  which  I  had  felt 
in  the  morning  was  gone ;  it  was  a  very  tired 
and  hungry,  a  sobered  and  a  chastened  prole- 
taire,  that  at  length  caught  sight,  in  the  gloom, 
of  Fitz-Adams's  Camp. 

It  stood  in  a  clearing  like  the  camp  of  Wolf's 
Run.  On  the  highest  area  was  a  long,  stout  log 
cabin,  to  which  there  was  given  an  added  air  of 
security  by  an  earth  embankment,  which  sloped 
from  the  ground  to  the  lower  logs  all  around  the 


206  THE   WORKERS 

building,  as  a  means  of  preventing  the  air  from 
sweeping  under  the  floors.  A  door  was  in  the 
end  of  the  cabin  nearest  me,  and  a  window  was 
cut  in  the  boarded  gable  above.  A  wooden 
block  served  as  a  step  to  the  door,  and  near  this 
a  grindstone  swung  in  its  frame.  On  the  outer 
walls  of  the  cabin  were  tacked  some  half  dozen 
advertisements  on  tin,  bidding  you,  in  black 

letters  on  an  orange  background, "  Chew Cut." 

Over  a  rough  bridge  that  crossed  the  run  near 
the  cabin,  I  could  faintly  see  one  or  two  other 
smaller  buildings  like  it,  which  proved  to  be  the 
blacksmith's  shop,  and  the  stable  for  the  team- 
sters' horses.  The  mountain-road  continued  its 
course  past  the  main  cabin,  and  disappeared 
among  the  trees  in  the  gorge.  So  narrow  was 
the  ravine,  that  the  mountain  rose  abruptly  from 
one  side  of  the  cabin,  and  in  much  the  same 
manner  from  the  bank  of  the  run  on  the  oppo- 
site side,  leaving  a  valley  scarcely  thirty  yards 
in  width.  The  larger  timber  had  been  cut  away> 
but  the  mountain-sides,  aU  about  the  clearing 
and  the  road,  were  dense  with  poplar,  and  white- 
barked  birch  and  chestnut,  and  the  younger 
growths  of  evergreen. 

There  was  perfect  quiet  in  the  camp ;  not  a 
living  thing  was  to  be  seen  or  heard.  I  went  up 
to  the  nearest  door,  and  knocked.  There  was  no 


IN   A   LOGGING   CAMP  207 

answer.  I  knocked  again,  and  still  there  was  no 
answer.  At  the  side,  far  to  the  rear,  I  found  an- 
other door,  and  knocked  there.  It  opened  in- 
stantly, and  in  the  twilight  I  could  faintly  see  a 
young  woman  in  a  dar^;  print  dress. 

"  Is  this  Fitz- Adams's  Camp? " 

"  Yes." 

"  Is  Mr.  Fitz-Adams  here?  " 

And  then  in  louder  voice  over  her  shoulder 
into  the  darkness  behind  her : 

"  Say,  Jim,  here's  a  man  that  wants  you." 

There  was  the  sound  of  heavy  footsteps  upon 
the  wooden  floor,  and  in  another  moment  Fitz- 
Adams  stood  framed  in  the  door-way. 

I  was  standing  on  the  ground,  quite  two  feet 
below,  and  looking  up  at  him  in  that  uncer- 
tain light,  he  seemed  to  me  gigantic.  A  great 
muscular  frame  fairly  filled  the  door.  He  was 
dressed  in  a  suit  of  light-gray  corduroy,  a  flannel 
shirt,  a  dark  felt  hat,  and  top-boots,  and  I  could 
see  that  he  was  young  and  not  unhandsome, 
although  of  a  very  different  type  of  good  looks 
from  those  of  Achilles.  His  large,  round  head 
rested  close  upon  a  trunk  that  was  massive  yet 
quite  splendidly  shapely,  and  highly  suggestive 
of  agility  and  strength.  His  face  was  round, 
and  the  features  full  and  of  uncertain  moulding, 
but  you  did  not  miss  the  evidence  of  strength  in 


208  THE   WORKERS 

his  thick,  firm  lips  and  the  clear,  unfaltering  eyes 
with  their  expression  of  perfect  unconscious- 
ness of  self.  He  was  plainly  Irish,  but  quite  as 
plainly  of  American  birth,  which  was  clear  when 
he  spoke. 

"I'm  looking  for  a  job,"  I  began,  "and  I've 
come  to  see  whether  I  can  get  one  here." 

"Who  sent  you?" 

"  They  told  me  in  Long's  Camp  that  I  might 
get  a  job  here." 

"  They  didn't  want  you,  and  so  they  sent  you 
to  me,  eh  ?  " 

"  They  said  that  they  didn't  need  more  men 
there." 

"  Oh,  they  did,  did  they  ?  And  you've  worked 
in  the  woods  before,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  No,  but  I  have  worked  at  other  kinds  of 
work,  and  if  you'll  give  me  a  chance  you  can 
see  what  I  can  do,  and  then  you  can  discharge 
me  if  you  don't  want  me." 

"Well,  there's  lots  of  work  in  this  camp, 
Buddy.  I  don't  guess  from  the  cut  of  you  and 
the  way  you  talk,  that  you  know  much  about  it. 
But  you  can  stay,  and  I'll  see  what's  in  you  on 
Monday.  Look  lively  now,  and  split  some  of 
that  wood,  and  build  a  fire  in  the  lobby." 

A  pile  of  dry  wood  which  had  been  sawed 
into  lengths  of  two  feet,  lay  near  the  kitchen- 


IN   A   LOGGING   CAMP  209 

door.  On  top  of  the  pile  was  an  axe ;  and  as 
quickly  as  I  could,  I  split  up  an  armful,  and  car- 
ried it  around  to  the  front  of  the  cabin  and  into 
the  lobby.  Near  the  centre  of  this  room,  which 
is  the  loafing-place  for  the  men,  was  an  iron 
stove  long  enough  to  admit  the  sticks  which  I 
had  cut.  It  was  the  work  of  a  minute  to  ar- 
range some  chips  in  the  bottom  of  the  stove,  and 
to  pile  the  wood  loosely  on  top  of  these.  I  was 
about  to  touch  a  match  to  the  finer  stuff,  when 
Fitz- Adams  appeared  with  a  tin  can  in  his  hand. 
He  bent  over  the  stove,  and  opening  the  door 
wide,  he  tossed  in  the  contents  of  the  can,  and 
the  room  was  instantly  full  of  a  strong  odor  of 
kerosene. 

In  another  moment  the  fire  was  blazing  like 
mad,  and  roaring  up  the  stove-pipe,  and  fast 
turning  the  old  cracked  stove  red  hot,  but  Fitz- 
Adams  stood  by  in  perfect  unconcern,  and  pres- 
ently departed  in  the  direction  of  the  kitchen. 

I  began  to  look  about  me  in  the  light  that 
shone  through  the  gleaming  cracks.  Swift 
shadows  were  chasing  one  another  over  the  walls 
and  ceiling,  and  I  soon  grew  familiar  with  a 
room  about  twelve  feet  deep,  and  which  ex- 
tended the  width  of  the  cabin.  The  floor  was 
bare,  and  was  very  damp  with  the  Saturday's 
scrubbing,  as  were  also  the  benches  which 
14 


210  THE   WORKERS 

reached  all  round  the  walls.  Besides  the  stove,  the 
only  piece  of  furniture  that  the  room  contained 
was  a  heavy  table,  about  four  feet  square,  which 
stood  close  to  the  benches  in  one  corner,  and 
directly  under  the  single  window  of  the  room, 
which  was  a  small  opening  in  the  logs,  fitted 
with  four  panes  of  glass.  A  rough  wooden  stair- 
case led  from  the  near  corner  through  an  open- 
ing in  the  ceiling  to  the  loft ;  and  a  door  was  cut 
through  the  thin  board  partition  which  sep- 
arates the  lobby  from  the  large  room  in  the  body 
of  the  cabin,  where  the  men  are  fed,  and  where 
I  am  writing  now.  The  logs  that  formed  the 
outer  walls  of  the  room  had  been  rough-hewn  to 
a  plane ;  and  along  these  walls,  on  two  sides  of 
the  room,  was  a  line  of  nails,  on  which  hung 
coats  and  hats  and  flannel  shirts  and  overalls. 
On  the  partition-wall  there  was  nailed  a  small 
mirror  with  a  little  shelf  below,  on  which  lay  a 
comb.  Near  this  were  three  wooden  rollers,  and 
over  them  as  many  towels,  large  and  coarse  and 
fresh  from  the  wash. 

I  found  a  dry  spot  on  the  bench  near  the 
stove,  and  shoving  my  pack  under  me,  I  sat 
down,  facing  the  outer  door,  and  awaited  de- 
velopments. 

It  had  grown  quite  dark  without.  The  young 
woman  who  met  rne  at  the  kitchen-door  now 


IN   A   LOGGING   CAMP  211 

came  in  with  a  small  oil-lamp,  which  she  placed 
on  the  shelf  near  the  mirror.  I  began  to  think 
that  the  men  must  all  have  left  the  camp  for  Sun- 
day, and  my  spirits  rose  at  the  thought  of  an 
easy  initiation  into  camp  life.  But  I  was  soon 
roused  from  this  revery  by  the  sound  of  many 
footsteps  approaching  the  cabin,  and  the  deep, 
gruff  voices  of  men. 

The  wooden  latch  lifted,  the  heavy  door  swung 
open,  and  there  came  trooping  in  a  crew  of  fif- 
teen lumbermen,  all  dripping  water  from  their 
hair  and  faces  and  hands,  for  they  were  fresh 
from  the  evening  wash  in  the  run.  They  went 
first  to  the  towels,  and  then  formed  in  line  for 
their  turns  at  the  mirror,  where  the  comb  was 
passed  from  hand  to  hand. 

Fifteen  pairs  of  wet,  blinking  eyes  were  fixed 
on  me,  and  I  was  obliged  to  meet  each  searching 
gaze  in  turn.  But  when  this  ordeal  was  passed, 
I  began  to  feel  a  little  at  my  ease,  for  the  men 
ignored  me  completely.  The  air  with  which  they 
turned  away  from  the  inspection  seemed  to  say  : 
"  There  is  something  exceedingly  irregular  in 
there  being  in  the  camp  so  abnormal  a  specimen 
as  this,  but  the  way  in  which  to  treat  the  case, 
at  least  for  the  present,  is  to  let  it  alone."  It  was 
precisely  the  manner  of  well-bred  men  toward,  let 
us  say,  some  inharmonious  figure  in  their  club, 


212  THE   WORKERS 

whose  presence  is  for  the  moment  unaccounted 
for. 

As  they  finished  their  preparation  for  supper, 
the  men  crowded  about  the  stove  to  warm  their 
hands,  chilled  by  the  cold  ablution.  Chiefly 
they  talked  shop  about  the  day's  work,  but  in 
terms  that  were  often  unintelligible  to  me,  and 
the  sentences  were  surcharged  with  oaths.  I 
watched  them  with  deep  personal  interest,  and 
pictured  myself  in  line,  and  wondered  whether 
I  should  ever  be  so  fortunate  as  to  find  a  clean, 
dry  section  on  a  towel,  or  come  early  to  the 
much-used  comb. 

The  last  man  iiad  barely  completed  his  toilet 
when  the  door  in  the  partition  opened,  and  a 
woman's  voice  announced  supper.  Instantly 
there  was  loud  shuffling  of  heavy  boots  on  the 
bare  floor,  and  a  momentary  press  about  the 
door,  and  then  we  were  soon  seated  at  one  of 
the  two  long  tables  in  the  mess-room  of  the 
cabin,  and  there  arose  a  clatter  of  hungry  men 
feeding,  and  the  hubbub  of  their  talk. 

The  meal  was  excellent.  Its  chief  dish  was 
corned  beef  and  cabbage,  and  there  were  boiled 
potatoes  and  boiled  beans  besides,  with  abun- 
dance of  home-made  white  bread,  and  strong  hot 
tea. 

My  seat  was  last  in  the  row  on  one  side  of  the 


IN  A  LOGGING  CAMP  213 

table.  The  end  seat  was  unoccupied,  and  my 
nearest  neighbor  ignored  me ;  I  was  free  to 
satisfy  a  well-developed  appetite,  and  grow  more 
familiar  with  my  surroundings. 

First  of  all  I  ate  a  very  hearty  supper.  The 
food  was  admirably  cooked,  and  was  served  with 
a  high  degree  of  cleanness.  The  oil-cloth,  of 
marble  design,  which  covered  the  table  was  spot- 
less, and  the  rude,  coarse  service,  befitting  a 
camp,  had  all  been  thoroughly  washed.  It  is 
true  that  the  men  were  without  their  coats,  most 
of  them  with  their  waistcoats  off,  but  these  are 
men  whose  work  is  of  the  cleanest,  and  there 
was  nothing  in  all  the  setting  of  the  supper 
to  mar  a  healthy  appetite ;  there  was  much,  I 
thought,  that  really  heightened  the  pleasure  of 
eating. 

The  conversation  ran  on  as  it  had  begun  in  the 
lobby.  There  was  much  talk  about  the  progress 
of  the  work,  and  gossip  about  neighboring 
camps,  and  proposals  for  the  disposing  of  Sun- 
day ;  and  it  struck  me  with  swift  terror  that 
the  presence  of  the  three  young  women,  who 
waited  on  the  table,  was  no  least  check  to  pro- 
fanity. The  talk  never  rose  to  the  pitch  of  ex- 
citement, it  was  the  mere  give  and  take  of  ordi- 
nary conversation,  and  yet  there  mingled  in 
it  the  blackest  oaths.  With  a  curse  of  eternal 


214  THE   WORKERS 

perdition  upon  his  lips,  a  man  would  speak  to 
his  neighbor  of  some  casual  incident  of  the  day, 
and  would  end  his  sentence  with  a  volley  of 
nameless  insults  and  hideous  blasphemies.  This 
was  their  common  language.  With  no  realiza- 
tion of  what  they  did,  they  flung  eternal  curses 
and  foul  insults  at  one  another  in  lightest  banter. 

Half  an  hour  later  we  had  all  returned  to  the 
lobby.  The  teamsters  lit  their  lanterns,  and 
went  to  care  for  the  horses.  Some  of  the  men 
went  up  into  the  loft.  Four  had  soon  started  a 
game  of  cards  at  the  table,  while  most  of  the 
others  filled  the  bench  near  the  stove,  or  drew 
empty  beer-kegs  and  old  soap-boxes  from  their 
hiding,  and  completed  the  circle  around  the  fire. 
Everyone  was  smoking,  and  all  seemed  highly 
content. 

I  was  crowded  in  between  a  lank  young  fellow 
with  dark  hair  and  eyes,  and  a  long,  lean  nose, 
who  was  swearing  comfortably  at  a  gawky  youth 
across  the  stove,  and  an  older  man,  of  heavier 
build,  who  had  fine  black  eyes  and  a  black 
mustache,  a  very  pale  complexion,  and  long 
black  hair  that  lay  in  pasty  ringlets  about  his 
face  and  on  his  neck. 

Soon  I  came  to  know  these  two  as  "  Long- 
nosed  Harry  "  and  "  Fred  the  Barber."  I  should 
explain  at  once  that  the  camps  have  a  curious 


IN   A   LOGGING  CAMP  215 

nomenclature  of  their  own.  As  among  other 
workingmen  whom  I  have  known,  so  here,  only 
a  man's  Christian  name  is  used,  but  it  is  nearly 
always  accompanied  with  an  explanatory  phrase. 
A  new-comer  in  the  camp  is  called  "  Buddy  " 
until  his  name  is  learned,  and  some  appropriate 
epithet  is  found,  or  until  a  nickname  springs 
complete  from  the  mysterious  source  of  those 
appellatives. 

I  knew  that  Fred  the  Barber  was  making 
ready  to  speak  to  me,  and  I  was  on  my  guard, 
when,  while  the  talk  was  running  high,  I  heard 
a  voice  close  to  my  ear : 

"  Say,  Buddy,  you  ain't  a  pedler,  are  you  ?  " 

"No." 

"  I  thought  you  warn't."  And  Fred  the  Bar- 
ber settled  farther  down  upon  his  seat,  and 
folded  his  arms,  and  puffed  in  silence  on  his 
pipe,  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  finds  deep  sat- 
isfaction in  his  own  sagacity.  Soon  he  returned 
to  the  cross-examination. 

"  Say,  Buddy,  are  you  going  to  work  in  the 
woods  ?  " 

"  Yes,  the  boss  took  me  on  this  evening." 

"Ain't  you  never  worked  in  the  woods  be- 
fore ?  "  His  pipe  was  out  of  his  mouth  now, 
and  his  eyes  shone  with  a  livelier  interest. 

"  No." 


216  THE  WORKERS 

"How's  that?" 

"  Why,  I'm  working  my  way  out  West,  and 
my  money  gave  out  in  Williarnsport ;  and  when 
I  went  looking  for  a  job,  I  was  told  that  I  could 
get  work  in  the  woods.  So  I  came  up  here." 

"  Well,  you  ain't  struck  a  soft  snap,  Buddy. 
Jim  the  Boss  is  a  square  man,  but  he  can  beat 
the  devil  at  work,  and  he  don't  go  easy  on  a  new 
hand.  This  is  my  tenth  season  in  the  woods, 
and  I  earn  two  dollars  a  day  right  along ;  but 
I'm  going  to  quit,  it's  too  rough." 

There  was  a  sudden  commotion  just  then,  for 
the  outer  door  had  opened  to  the  touch  of  a 
young  woodsman,  who,  standing  sharply  defined 
against  the  black  night,  regarded  the  company 
with  a  radiant  smile.  He  was  the  finest  speci- 
men of  them  all ;  not  much  over  twenty,  I  should 
say,  and  grown  to  a  good  six  feet  of  height,  and 
as  straight  as  the  trees  among  which  he  worked. 
Through  the  covering  of  rough  clothes  you  felt 
with  delight  the  curves  of  his  splendid  figure, 
and  the  sinewy  muscles  in  symmetrical  develop- 
ment. And  then  the  lines  of  his  throat  and 
neck  were  so  clean  and  strong,  and  his  face 
charmed  you  with  its  fresh  beauty,  and  its  ex- 
pression of  frank  joyousness.  No  wonder  that 
he  was  a  favorite  in  the  camp.  The  men  were 
rising  from  their  seats,  and  the  air  was  full  of 


IN   A   LOGGING   CAMP  217 

welcome,  while  he  stood  there  for  a  moment,  his 
teeth  gleaming  as  he  smiled,  and  his  eyes  shin- 
ing with  delight. 

There  rose  a  tumult  of  loud  voices  : 

"  I'm  eternally  lost,  if  it  ain't  Dick  the  Kid !  " 
"  Dickie,  me  boy,  you  God-forsaken  whelp,  are 
ye  drunk?"  "You  ain't  spent  it  all  in  two 
days,  have  you,  Dick?"  "Shut  that  lost  door, 
and  sit  down  by  this  condemned  fire,  you  ill- 
begotten  cur,  and  eternal  torment  be  your  lot !  " 
"Tell  us  what  hellish  thing  brings  you  here, 
you  blessed  boy,  and  why  —  ripe  for  endless 
misery  as  you  are — why  ain't  you  in  Williams- 
port?" 

The  smile  did  not  fade  from  Dick's  face,  as 
with  easy  deliberation  he  took  a  seat  on  a  beer- 
keg  and  looked  at  the  crew  with  answering  af- 
fection in  his  eyes. 

"  I'm  forever  lost  if  I've  been  to  Williams- 
port,"  he  began.  "  And  I  ain't  drunk  a  drop, 
you  perjured  hell-hounds  of  shameless  beget- 
ting. I've  got  all  my  reprobate  stuff  with  me 
except  the  two  God-condemned  dollars  that  it's 
cost  me  to  live  at  the  Temperance  House  in 
English  Centre,  where  you  can  get  for  a  quar- 
ter the  best  meal  that  any  of  you  unveracious 
ones,  you  food  for  unquenchable  fire,  ever 
ate." 


218  THE   WORKERS 

God  help  us !  it  was  like  that,  only  a  great 
deal  worse,  until  the  blessed  stillness  of  the 
night  fell  upon  the  camp. 

For  an  hour  or  more  Dick  the  Kid  sat  talk- 
ing to  the  other  men.  A  stranger  in  English 
Centre  had  fired  his  ambition  for  the  lumber- 
camps  in  the  mountains  somewhere  in  West 
Virginia,  and  Dick  was  freely  imparting  his 
plans — how  he  meant  to  beat  his  way  to  Har- 
risburg  and  then  to  Pittsburg,  and  so  on  to  his 
destination,  hoarding,  the  while,  his  savings  of 
about  sixty-five  dollars,  as  capital  to  launch  him 
in  a  new  enterprise,  where  he  was  sure  that 
more  money  could  be  made  than  here. 

The  men  listened  in  rapt  attention,  knowing 
perfectly  that  Williamsport  was  the  destined  end 
of  Dick's  journey,  and  that  the  dram-shops  there 
and  brothels  would  get  every  dollar  to  the  last ; 
yet  charmed  by  his  fresh  enthusiasm,  which 
touched  a  hidden  memory,  or  gave  momentary 
flight  to  some  new-fledged  hope  that  fluttered 
in  their  breasts.  He  was  so  young  and  strong 
and  handsome,  so  full  of  life,  so  rich  in  native 
gifts  that  win  and  hold  affection  with  no  thought 
of  effort !  One  knew  it  from  the  clear,  keen  joy- 
ance  of  the  man,  and  the  power  which  he  had  to 
hold  the  others,  and  to  draw  out  their  hardy 
sympathy.  I  could  endure  the  sight  no  longer ; 


IN   A   LOGGING   CAMP  219 

I  went  out  to  the  mountain-road,  and  waited 
where  I  thought  that  Dick  would  pass. 

He  was  startled  when  I  stopped  him,  and 
instinctively  he  clenched  his  fists.  For  a  mo- 
ment I  had  a  vivid  sense  of  my  physical  insig- 
nificance, as  I  realized  how  easily,  with  a  single 
blow,  he  could  smash  in  my  countenance  and 
make  swift  end  of  me. 

"  I'm  a  new  man  in  the  camp,"  I  began.  "  The 
boss  took  me  on  this  evening.  I  was  interested 
in  what  you  said  about  going  to  West  Virginia, 
and  I  wanted  to  ask  you  more  about  it.  Have 
you  ever  been  there?  " 

"  No." 

"  You  are  sure  that  there's  a  good  chance  for 
a  man  there  ?  " 

"  It's  all  straight,  Buddy,  if  that's  what  you 
mean." 

I  told  him  frankly  what  I  meant,  but  he  was 
still  on  his  guard,  and  presently  he  broke  in 
abruptly  with 

"  Say,  Buddy,  you're  a  sky-pilot,  ain't  you  ?  " 

We  walked  on  together  for  a  mile  or  more, 
and  Dick  grew  friendly,  and  I  lost  my  heart  to 
him  completely.  Only  once  Dick  warmed  a  lit- 
tle at  a  question  from  me.  Perhaps  I  had  no 
right  to  ask  it  upon  so  slight  an  acquaintance  ; 
but  as  there  was  little  prospect  of  my  ever  see- 


220  THE   WORKEBS 

ing  him  again,  I  asked  him  if  he  felt  no  sense 
of  wrong  in  using  lightly  the  name  of  the  Al- 
mighty. 

I  can  see  him  now  as  he  stood  against  the 
blackness  of  the  forest  under  the  clear,  still 
stars,  and  answered  me,  with  protest  in  his  eyes 
and  in  his  voice : 

"  By  the  Eternal,  Buddy,  I  ain't  swore  for  a 
month !  May  the  Infinite  consign  me  to  the 
tortures  of  all  fiends,  if  I've  swore  for  a  month  ! 
That  ?  Oh,  that  ain't  nothing ;  that's  the  way 
that  us  fellows  talks.  If  you  live  in  the  camp 
long  enough,  Buddy,  you'll  hear  a  man  swear." 

His  face  was  even  more  attractive  in  its  ex- 
pression of  manly  seriousness  when  we  stood 
on  the  roadside  at  parting,  and  he  put  a  firm 
hand  on  my  shoulder,  and  fixed  clear  eyes  on 
mine,  as  he  told  me,  in  his  frank,  open  way,  that 
he  wanted  to  make  a  man  of  himself  and  not  be 
a  drunken  sot,  and  that,  in  this  new  venture 
before  him,  he  would  honestly  try,  and  would 
ask  for  help. 

The  men  were  going  to  bed  when  I  got  back 
to  camp.  I  took  my  pack  and  followed  them 
into  the  loft,  where  I  found  three  long  rows  of 
beds,  reaching  nearly  the  length  of  the  cabin. 
At  my  knock  the  boss  came  out  of  his  room, 
which  is  a  lightly  boarded-in  corner  of  the  loft, 


IN   A   LOGGING   CAMP  221 

and  gave  me  a  bed  next  to  that  occupied  by 
"  Old  Man  Toler." 

I  had  noticed  Old  Man  Toler  in  the  lobby  as 
being  markedly  older  than  most  of  the  others. 
He  was  about  fifty-five,  I  thought,  of  slender, 
slightly  stooping  figure,  and  with  gray  hair. 
What  had  impressed  me  was  his  exceedingly 
intelligent  and  agreeable  face,  and  I  had  won- 
dered at  sight  of  him  as  being  apparently  an  or- 
dinary hand  in  the  crew.  He  gave  me  a  friendly 
greeting  when  the  boss  consigned  me  to  his  care, 
and  then  resumed  his  conversation  with  a  neigh- 
bor, while  I  made  ready  for  bed. 

The  beds  are  simple  arrangements,  admirably 
suited  to  the  ends  which  they  serve.  A  mattress 
and  a  bolster  stuffed  with  straw  lie  upon  a  rough 
wooden  frame  without  springs,  and  on  top  of 
these  are  four  or  five  thicknesses  of  coarse  blank- 
ets and  tow  "comforters."  The  men  creep  under 
as  many  strata  of  bed-clothing  as  their  individ- 
ual tastes  prompt  in  a  given  temperature.  And 
the  temperature  varies  in  the  loft  in  nearly  exact 
conformity  with  its  variations  out  of  doors,  for 
the  boards  in  the  gables  have  sprung  apart,  and 
there  are  rifts  even  between  the  logs,  and  the 
winds  sweep  with  much  freedom  from  end  to 
end  of  our  large  bedroom. 

I  soon  became  interested,  too,  in  the  varying 


222  THE   WOKKEES 

tastes  of  the  men  in  the  manner  of  their  dress 
for  bed.  Some  go  so  far  on  warmer  nights  as 
to  take  off  their  boots  and  trousers,  and  even 
their  coats  and  waistcoats.  Others  stop  at  their 
boots  and  coats ;  and  on  the  coolest  nights  not 
a  few  go  top-coated  and  booted  to  bed,  and 
make  a  complete  toilet  in  the  morning  by  putting 
on  their  hats. 

There  was  more  than  one  surprise  for  me  that 
night,  in  the  considerate,  well-bred  manners  of 
the  men ;  and  the  whole  experience  of  my  stay 
in  camp  has  only  served  to  deepen  my  appre- 
ciation. Young  Arthur  met,  at  Rugby,  the  fate 
which  a  merely  casual  acquaintance  with  Sun- 
day-school literature  would  lead  one  to  imagine 
as  being  unfailingly  in  store  for  those  who  pre- 
fer to  maintain  their  private  habits  in  the  com- 
pany of  unsympathetic  associates.  It  will  be 
remembered  that  Arthur  became,  while  kneeling 
at  his  bedside  on  the  evening  of  his  first  day  at 
school,  a  target  for  boots  and  unkind  remarks, 
until  Tom  Brown  interfered.  Schools  have  im- 
proved since  those  days,  and  it  has  been  grati- 
fying to  observe  that  a  like  improvement  has 
spread  among  workingmen,  even  so  far  as  to  em- 
brace the  lumber-camps.  The  momentary  ex- 
pectation of  a  boot  in  violent  contact  with  one's 
head  is  not  a  devotion-fostering  emotion,  and  it 


IN  A  LOGGING  CAMP  223 

was  a  distinct  relief  to  find  no  least  objection 
offered  to  a  course  of  conduct  however  out  of 
keeping  with  the  customs  of  the  place. 

There  was  another  surprise  in  the  comfort  and 
the  wholesome  cleanliness  of  my  bed,  notwith- 
standing its  roughness.  But  in  spite  of  physical 
ease,  I  lay  awake  until  after  midnight,  and  when 
I  slept  at  last,  troubled  dreams  pursued  me ;  I 
awoke  unrested,  feeling  sick  at  heart,  and  little 
inclined  to  further  acquaintance  with  a  lumber 
amp. 

But  the  morning  brought  a  glorious  day,  clear 
and  much  warmer  than  Saturday;  and  after  a 
late  breakfast  (seven  o'clock)  I  took  a  book  into 
the  forest,  found  a  comfortable  seat,  and  read 
until  nightfall,  with  time  enough  for  dinner  taken 
out. 

The  men  scattered  widely  soon  after  breakfast. 
Many  visited  neighboring  camps,  or  went  shoot- 
ing ;  some  walked  to  English  Centre  ;  but  it  was 
a  perfectly  sober  crew  that  reassembled  at  the 
supper-table,  and  a  much  cleaner-looking  set 
than  on  the  night  before ;  for  after  breakfast,  for 
two  hours  or  more,  Fred  the  Barber  had  thriftily 
plied  his  trade. 

We  all  went  early  to  bed.  The  men  hailed 
the  day's  end  as  bringing  welcome  relief  in  re- 
lease from  intolerable  restraint.  When  it  grew 


224  THE   WOKKEKS 

too  dark  to  read,  and  I  had  returned  to  the  cabin, 
I  found  in  the  lobby  several  of  the  men  who  had 
loafed  about  the  camp  all  day.  They  were  in 
vicious  humor.  They  fretted  like  children  long 
shut  in  by  the  rain.  They  could  not  sit  still  in 
comfort,  and  their  restlessness  grew  upon  them 
as  they  waited  for  supper,  and  the  movement  of 
time  was  slow  torture ;  and  so  they  swore  at  one 
another  and  at  the  other  men  who  were  return- 
ing to  the  camp,  and  who  seemed  in  but  little 
better  humor  than  themselves. 


CHAPTER  VH 

IN  A  LOGGING  CAMP    (Concluded) 

I  SLEPT  soundly  that  night,  and  was  awakened 
in  the  morning  by  the  mad  clatter  of  an  alarm- 
clock.  It  was  about  four  o'clock.  I  could  hear 
Fitz-Adams  getting  up  in  the  little  chamber 
which  serves  him  as  a  sleeping-room  and  an  of- 
fice. He  went  below,  and  soon  had  the  fires 
roaring  fiercely  in  the  kitchen  and  lobby ;  and 
I  could  hear  him  call  to  the  women  to  get  up 
and  get  breakfast.  Next  he  appeared  in  the 
loft,  and  aroused  the  teamsters.  In  an  incredi- 
bly short  time  they  were  dressed,  and  had  lit 
their  lanterns,  and  were  gone  to  the  stable  to 
feed  and  tend  their  horses. 

I  got  up  with  them,  and  was  nearly  dressed, 
when  the  boss  reappeared  in  the  loft.  He  walked 
down  between  the  rows  of  beds,  laying  heavy 
hands  here  and  there  upon  sleeping  figures,  and 
raising  his  voice  to  the  call :  "  Come,  roll  out  of 

this,  you  damn ! "     There  was  no 

ill-temper  in  his  manner  or  tone ;  it  was  simply 
his  habitual  way  of  rousing  the  crew. 
15  225 


226  THE   WOKKEKS 

I  was  first  at  the  run,  first  at  the  towels  and 
comb,  and  was  sitting  in  warm  comfort  behind 
the  stove  when  the  other  men  came  shambling 
from  the  loft,  their  eyes  blinking  in  the  sudden 
light  of  the  lobby. 

We  had  beefsteak  and  potatoes  and  bread  and 
coffee  for  breakfast.  As  soon  as  he  had  finished 
his  meal,  I  went  up  to  the  boss  to  remind  him 
of  my  existence,  for  he  had  in  no  way  noticed 
me  since  Saturday  night. 

"  You'll  help  the  teamsters  load  bark,  Buddy. 
Have  you  got  any  gloves  ?  " 

"No,"  I  said. 

"  Then  come  this  way."  We  went  together  to 
the  office,  and  he  spread  before  me  a  number  of 
new  pairs  of  heavy  skin  gloves. 

"  I  don't  know  which  will  be  best  suited  to 
the  work  that  you  want  me  to  do,"  I  said. 
"  Won't  you  select  a  pair  for  me  ?  " 

"  My  advice  to  you,  Buddy,  is  to  wear  them 
mits,"  and  he  pointed  to  a  pair  of  white  pig- 
skin mittens.  "They'll  cost  you  seventy-five 
cents,  which  I'll  charge  to  your  wages." 

There  was  a  cot  in  the  office,  and  a  writing- 
desk,  and  in  one  corner  a  small  stock  of  woods- 
men's furnishing  goods:  boots,  hats,  overalls, 
and  blanket-jackets,  besides  the  gloves. 

The  boss  locked  the  door  behind  us,  and  told 


IN  A   LOGGING   CAMP  227 

me  to  follow  him.  He  carried  a  lantern,  and 
lit  the  way  to  the  stables. 

Outside  it  was  white  and  still,  almost  like  a 
clear,  quiet  night  in  the  snows  of  midwinter ; 
for  a  heavy  frost  covered  everything,  and  in  the 
thin,  unmoving  air  you  could  almost  hear  the 
crackling  formation  of  frost-crystals.  Into  the 
darkness  of  the  forest  the  stars  shone  with 
greater  glory,  and  Orion  was  just  sinking  be- 
yond the  western  mountain. 

The  four  or  five  teamsters  and  Old  Man 
Toler  and  I  had  gathered  in  front  of  the  stable, 
where  the  bark-wagons  stood  in  the  open. 
These  were  strong  vehicles,  each  with  four  mas- 
sive wheels,  and  they  supported  wide-spread- 
ing frames  within  which  three  or  more  cords  of 
bark  could  be  loaded. 

We  "greased"  the  wagons  by  lantern-light, 
and  then  "  hooked  up  "  the  horses.  The  wagon 
in  the  van  was  driven  by  "  Black  Bob."  Fitz- 
Adams  ordered  Old  Man  Toler  and  me  to  go 
with  that  teamster  and  help  him  get  on  a  load 
of  bark. 

Black  Bob,  muffled  to  the  eyes  in  a  long 
ulster  which  was  bound  about  his  waist  with  a 
piece  of  rope,  stood  erect  on  the  loose  boards 
that  formed  the  floor  of  his  wagon,  and  gathered 
up  the  reins,  and  then  started  his  horses  with  a 


228  THE    WORKEKS 

ringing  oath.  Old  Man  Toler  and  I  followed 
after,  on  foot,  up  a  rocky  road  that  had  been 
newly  cut  to  a  point  on  the  mountain  where 
strips  of  hemlock  -  bark  lay  piled  like  cord- 
wood. 

Black  Bob  swayed  to  the  jolting  of  the  wagon, 
but  kept  his  balance  with  the  ease  of  long  habit, 
and  swore  a  running  accompaniment  to  the  tug- 
ging of  his  team.  He  was  the  tallest  man  in 
the  camp,  almost  a  giant  in  height  and  in  pro- 
portional development,  and  he  owed  his  name 
to  his  blue-black  hair  and  swarthy  complexion. 
He  was  a  native-born  American,  and,  although 
he  seemed  never  to  discriminate  among  the  other 
men  on  grounds  of  nationality,  I  thought  that 
some  of  them  did  not  like  him  because  of  a  cer- 
tain domineering  manner  he  had. 

He  drew  up  now  beside  a  pile  of  bark,  and 
Toler  and  I  placed  a  large  stone  under  each 
hind  wheel  to  relieve  the  pull  on  the  horses. 

It  had  been  growing  light  as  we  climbed  the 
mountain,  and  now  we  could  see  the  sunlight  on 
the  topmost  trees  across  the  ravine. 

Toler  took  up  a  position  facing  the  bark-pile, 
with  his  back  to  the  wagon.  He  began  to  pass 
swiftly  the  pieces  of  bark  over  his  head  and 
into  the  rigging,  where  Black  Bob  stood  ready 
to  load.  I  followed  Toler's  example,  imitating 


IN  A   LOGGING  CAMP  229 

his  movements  as  closely  as  I  could,  but  was 
painfully  aware  of  my  awkwardness. 

We  had  been  but  a  few  minutes  at  work  when 
the  boss  came  driving  up  behind  us;  as  he 
turned  out  in  order  to  pass,  he  called  to  me 
to  come  with  him,  and  lend  a  hand  at  load- 
ing. 

I  had  an  uncomfortable  premonition  of  the 
ordeal  before  me ;  why,  I  do  not  know,  for  the 
boss  had  treated  me  civilly  so  far  ;  but  I  greatly 
wished  to  stay  in  the  camp,  and  I  much  feared 
discharge. 

The  boss  drove  on  for  some  distance,  then 
branched  off  on  a  side-road,  and  having  passed 
a  number  of  bark-piles,  finally  turned  around 
with  great  difficulty,  and  drew  up,  as  Black  Bob 
had  done,  beside  a  cord  of  bark. 

I  hastened  to  place  a  stone  under  a  hind 
wheel,  and  then  threw  off  my  coat,  and,  getting 
in  between  the  wagon  and  the  pile,  I  began  to 
pass  the  bark  over  my  head,  as  I  had  learned 
to  do  from  Toler. 

The  boss  stood  on  the  bottom  of  the  rig,  ac- 
cepting listlessly  the  bark  as  I  passed  it,  and 
tossing  it  carelessly  into  place.  His  whole  man- 
ner was  meant  to  convey  to  me  the  idea  of  my 
own  inefficiency,  as  though  he  was  ready  to 
work,  even  anxious  to  get  warmed  up  in  the 


230  THE   WOEKEES 

frosty  air,  but  my  part  was  so  slowly  done  that 
his  own  was  reduced  to  child's  play. 

The  storm  brewed  for  a  time  in  grim  silence, 
but  soon  it  broke  into  angry  shouts  of  "  Faster, 
faster,  damn  you ! "  and  then  the  entire  gamut 
of  insults  and  excommunications. 

I  had  been  cursed  at  West  Point,  though  in 
terms  less  hard  to  bear ;  and  in  expectation  of 
the  worst,  I  thought  that  I  had  schooled  myself 
to  take  it  philosophically  when  it  came.  But  I 
had  an  awful  moment  now,  for  philosophy  was 
clean  gone,  and  in  its  place  was  a  swift,  mad  de- 
sire to  kill ;  and  as  the  hot  blood  rushed  to  my 
brain,  and  tingled  in  my  finger-tips,  all  that  I 
could  see  for  the  instant  were  the  handy  stones 
under  my  feet,  and  the  close  range  of  Fitz- 
Adams's  head. 

I  do  not  know  what  it  was  that  saved  me,  un- 
less it  was  the  sight  of  Fitz-Adams  flushed  with 
the  anger  into  which  he  lashed  himself,  and  be- 
coming the  more  ludicrously  impotent  in  his 
rage,  as  I  restrained  my  temper,  and  showed  no 
sign  of  fear.  Why  he  did  not  discharge  me  on 
the  spot  I  do  not  know.  With  awful  impreca 
tions  he  kept  urging  me  to  faster  and  yet  faster 
work.  I  quickened  my  clumsy  pace  to  the 
swiftest  that  I  could  maintain  with  efficiency, 
and  held  it  there,  careless  of  his  curses ;  and, 


IN  A   LOGGING  CAMP  231 

exhausted  as  I  was,  I  yet  had  the  satisfaction  at 
the  last  of  noting  that  our  load  was  on  as  quickly 
as  was  Black  Bob's. 

And  Fitz- Adams,  too,  found  a  curious  balm 
for  his  troubled  feelings.  We  were  at  the  last 
cord,  and  he  was  cursing  hard,  while  I  panted 
and  sweated  in  my  straining  efforts  to  pass  the 
bark  aboard.  The  strips  were  large  and  heavy, 
some  of  them,  and  they  all  lay  rough  side  up ; 
and  as  you  lifted  them  over  your  head  there 
fell  upon  you  from  each  a  shower  of  dust  and 
dirt  that  had  gathered  in  the  crumbling  outer 
bark.  This  filled  your  ears  and  hair,  and  found 
its  way  far  down  your  back.  I  had  blocked  the 
v/heel,  but  we  were  on  a  sharp  descent,  and  the 
load  was  growing  heavy.  Evidently  Fitz- Adams 
feared  our  breaking  loose,  and  so  he  stopped  me 
suddenly  with  an  order  to  "  make  fast  the  lock- 
break."  Now  "  the  lock-break "  conveyed  the 
dimmest  notion  to  my  mind,  and  the  boss  would 
give  no  hint  as  to  what  it  really  was  nor  how  it 
was  to  be  "  made  fast ; "  instead,  he  stood  and 
watched  me,  while,  with  awkward  guesses  as  to 
its  purpose,  I  succeeded  in  unhooking  one  end 
of  a  heavy  chain  that  hung  under  the  wagon, 
and  having  passed  it  between  two  spokes  of  a 
hind  wheel,  I  clumsily  made  fast  the  hook  in  a 
link  of  the  chain  drawn  taut. 


232  THE  WORKERS 

Fitz-Adams  stood,  meanwhile,  in  speechless 
anger,  enraged  beyond  relief  from  oaths ;  and 
then  the  tension  broke,  with  comical  effect,  in  a 
sentence  which  seemed  to  come  to  him  as  a 
happy  inspiration  : 

"I'm  damned,  Buddy,  if  you  ain't  greener 
than  a  green  Irishman ;  greener  than  a  green 
Irishman."  He  repeated  the  phrase  as  though 
it  exactly  met  the  case,  and  brought  him  satis- 
faction far  beyond  the  power  of  profanity ;  and 
then  he  shouted  through  the  forest : 

"Hey,  Bob!" 

"Hello!" 

"  This  Buddy,  he's  greener  than  a  green  Irish- 
man !  "  and  he  laughed  aloud,  and  there  came  an 
answering  laugh  from  Bob ;  and  the  boss  started 
down  the  mountain  with  his  load,  the  locked 
wheel  bounding  and  crunching  among  the  stones, 
while  he  swore  to  steady  the  horses. 

That  was  all  of  the  loading  for  the  morning, 
so  Toler  and  I  joined  company.  Toler  had  in 
charge  the  cutting  of  roads  to  the  bark-piles, 
and  I  was  to  serve  with  him. 

The  piles  were,  some  of  them,  in  most  inac- 
cessible places.  The  hemlock-trees  on  that  side 
of  the  mountain  had  first  been  felled,  then  the 
bark  was  cut  round  on  the  trunks  at  intervals  of 
four  feet.  Next  the  bark  was  peeled  off  and 


IN  A  LOGGING  CAMP  233 

carefully  heaped  near  by,  while  the  trees  them- 
selves were  trimmed  and  then  sawed  into  logs 
of  desired  lengths,  and  these  were  "  skidded  " 
into  piles.  From  the  piles,  in  the  spring,  when 
the  streams  are  high,  the  logs  are  sent  by  "  skid 
ways  "  into  the  run,  and,  once  in  the  water,  the 
lumbermen  use  their  finest  skill  in  floating  them 
to  the  market  at  Williamsport. 

In  the  meanwhile  the  bark  must  be  got  out 
and  carted  to  the  tannery,  and  Toler  and  I  had 
our  work  laid  out  in  cutting  ways  for  the  wagons. 

Supplied  each  with  an  axe,  a  cant-hook,  and 
a  grubbing-hoe,  we  began  the  work  of  cutting 
through  the  brushwood  and  clearing  away  the 
stumps,  and  laying  rough  bridges  over  the  small 
streams. 

I  was  delighted  at  my  good  fortune  in  being 
set  to  work  under  Toler.  My  respect  for  him 
grew  steadily.  An  experience  of  nearly  forty 
years  as  a  woodsman  had  developed  his  natural 
gifts  to  the  point  of  highest  skill,  and  he  had  a 
marvellous  instinct  for  directing  a  course  through 
the  maze  of  tangled  undergrowth  and  logs  and 
stumps  which  marked  the  ruins  of  the  forest.  I 
was  soon  lost,  but  he  turned  hither  and  thither, 
with  the  ready  familiarity  of  a  gamin  to  whom 
there  are  no  intricacies  in  the  East  End.  He 
had  the  inspiring  air  of  knowing  what  he  was 


234  THE   WOEKEES 

about,  and  the  less  common  possession  of  actual 
knowledge,  and  he  did  his  work  in  a  masterly 
manner.  "  A  workman  that  needeth  not  to  be 
ashamed  "  constantly  recurred  to  me  as  a  phrase 
which  aptly  fitted  him.  And  besides  being  a 
clever  woodsman,  Toler  was  clean  of  speech, 
that  is,  comparatively  clean  of  speech  —  he 
swore,  but  his  oaths  were  conventional  and  not 
usually  of  the  blood-congealing  kind  of  some  of 
the  other  men. 

That  was  a  long  morning's  work,  from  earliest 
dawn  until  noon,  and  the  ultimate  advent  of  the 
dinner-hour  was  hugely  welcome.  Toler  and  I 
knocked  off  work  at  the  sound  of  the  noon  whis- 
tle at  the  tannery  four  or  five  miles  away.  Only 
a  few  of  us  gathered  at  the  camp.  Fitz- Adams, 
with  the  other  teamsters,  and  "  Sam  the  Book- 
keeper," who  is  also  the  camp  carpenter,  and 
Toler  and  I  made  up  the  number.  The  rest  of 
the  crew  were  too  far  in  the  mountains  to  return 
at  midday,  and  "  Tim  the  Blacksmith  "  drove  off 
in  the  buckboard  with  a  hot  dinner  for  them. 

The  first  work  of  the  afternoon  was  to  help 
the  teamsters  get  on  a  second  load  of  bark. 
Again  the  boss  forced  me  to  his  aid,  and  cursed 
me  as  he  had  done  before,  only  I  thought  that 
he  had  been  drinking,  and  there  was  certainly 
an  added  viciousness  in  his  oaths,  and  in  the 


IN  A   LOGGING  CAMP  235 

threats  of  sudden  death.  But  I  had  the  conso- 
lation now  of  knowing  that,  as  soon  as  the  load 
was  on,  I  should  work  with  Toler  for  the  rest  of 
the  day.  Toler  did  not  curse  ine,  although  it  was 
impossible  for  him  to  wholly  conceal  the  slender 
regard  in  which  he  held  a  man  who  never  before 
had  seen  a  grubbing-hoe,  nor  a  cant-hook,  and 
who  handled  an  axe  about  as  effectively  as  a  girl 
throws  a  stone,  and  to  whom  the  woods  were  a 
hopeless  labyrinth.  But  Toler  had  the  instincts 
of  a  gentleman ;  for  all  his  want  of  respect  for 
a  man  so  ignorant  as  I,  it  was  clear  that  there 
was  not  a  little  patient  compassion  in  the  feeling 
which  he  bore  me,  and  he  was  at  pains  to  teach 
me,  and  he  eagerly  encouraged  any  sign  of  im- 
provement on  my  part. 

But  this  time  I  was  not  done  with  Fitz-  Adams 
when  the  afternoon's  load  was  on.  Toler  and  I 
soon  needed  a  crowbar,  and  he  sent  me  to  fetch 
one  from  the  blacksmith's  shop. 

Near  the  shop  there  is  a  depression  in  the 
road,  and  there  the  soil  is  somewhat  soft.  Much 
noise  was  coming  from  that  quarter;  and  as  I 
neared  it  I  could  see  that  Black  Bob's  wheels 
were  fast  in  the  mud,  and  that  the  boss's  load  was 
drawn  close  up  behind  and  blocked. 

Black  Bob  was  on  the  ground  beside  his  team, 
his  reins  in  hand,  and  with  frantic  oaths  he  was 


236  THE  WORKERS 

urging  his  horses  to  their  utmost  strength.  Fitz- 
Adams  stood  by  and  watched ;  but  at  sight  of 
the  weakening  brutes,  he  quickly  unbolted  his 
own  whiffle-trees,  and  driving  his  team  ahead, 
made  fast  to  the  tongue  of  Black  Bob's  wagon. 
Then  both  together  they  started  up  their  horses, 
lashing  them  with  the  far-reaching  leather  thongs 
that  swung  from  the  short  stocks  which  they 
carried,  and  joining  in  a  chorus  of  furious  curses. 
Slowly  the  great  wheels  began  to  rise  from  the 
deep  grooves  in  which  they  had  settled ;  but  in 
another  minute,  as  the  strength  of  the  horses 
failed,  the  wheels  sunk  surely  back  again.  Fitz- 
Adams  was  beside  himself  with  rage,  and  at  that 
moment  he  caught  sight  of  me. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here?  "  he  shouted  with 
an  oath. 

"  Toler  sent  me  for  a  crowbar." 

"  He  did,  did  he  ?  Then  I'll  send  you  to  hell ! " 
and  with  that  he  seized  an  axe  which  lay  near, 
and  swinging  it  above  his  head,  he  rushed  at  me. 
It  was  a  menacing  figure  that  he  made,  with 
the  axe  held  aloft  by  his  giant  arms,  his  eyes 
flashing,  and  his  nostrils  dilating  with  the  child- 
ish passion  which  mastered  him ;  but  he  was  as 
harmless  as  a  child  at  any  show  of  fearlessness, 
and  there  was  the  oddest  anticlimax  in  his  mild 
command  to  "  get  that  damn  crowbar  and  hurry 


IN   A  LOGGING  CAMP  237 

back  to  Toler,"  which  I  was  glad  enough  to  do ; 
for  my  part  was  a  mere  pretence  of  courage ;  in 
reality  I  felt  scared  out  of  a  year's  growth,  and 
my  legs  were  trembling  violently. 

Through  the  following  days  there  was  little 
variation  for  Toler  and  me  in  the  programme  of 
work.  We  loaded  bark  until  the  teamsters  were 
off,  and  then  cut  ways  to  the  piles. 

There  is,  however,  an  incident  of  Tuesday 
morning  which  will  linger  in  my  memory.  It 
was  the  fulfilment  of  Dick  the  Kid's  prophecy. 
I  heard  a  man  swear. 

The  boss  anticipated  the  usual  time  of  the 
morning  cursing,  and  gave  me  an  initial  one 
that  day  in  the  dark  in  front  of  the  stables,  while 
the  teamsters  stood  by  with  their  lanterns  in 
hand,  and  listened  critically  with  sober  faces,  as 
though  they  were  determining,  with  a  nice  sense 
of  the  possible,  whether  Fitz- Adams  was  doing 
himself  justice.  At  the  last  he  turned  to  them : 

"  Will  I  kill  him  now,  or  let  him  live  one  day 
more  ?  " 

"Let  the  damn  dog  live,"  came  from  Black 
Bob. 

"  Then  you'll  take  him,"  said  the  boss,  "  and 
dray  out  that  bark."  So  Black  Bob  and  I  set  off 
in  company. 

I  was  not  a  little  perplexed  by  the  puerility 


238  THE  WOEKERS 

of  Fitz- Adams's  rage.  It  seemed  singularly  out 
of  keeping  with  the  sturdy  manliness  of  the  fel- 
low. If  he  wished  to  get  rid  of  me,  why  did 
he  not  discharge  me  ?  I  began  to  suspect  that 
the  cause  lay  in  tenderness  of  heart,  of  which  he 
was  secretly  ashamed.  To  him  I  was  avis  rara 
in  a  lumber-camp.  No  doubt  he  thought  me 
some  hitherto  unknown  species  of  immigrant; 
and  being  too  tender-hearted  to  assume  the  re- 
sponsibility of  turning  me  adrift,  he  hoped  to 
frighten  me  away.  Black  Bob  soon  puzzled  me 
almost  as  much.  He  was  driving  the  dray,  which 
is  a  rude,  low  sledge,  used  to  draw  out  bark  from 
points  that  are  inaccessible  to  the  wagons.  We 
were  walking  together  at  the  side  of  the  road, 
and  neither  of  us  spoke.  Presently  Bob  stopped 
his  horses  to  give  them  breath,  and  then  he 
turned  to  me.  His  speech  was  halting,  and  there 
was  an  uncomfortable,  apologetic  quality  in  his 
voice,  but  the  feeling  was  evidently  sincere.  To 
my  surprise  he  was  bidding  me,  with  utmost 
kindness,  not  to  mind  Fitz- Adams's  curses,  and 
he  added  that  the  boss  meant  nothing  by  them, 
that  he  really  knew  no  better.  It  seemed  to  me 
an  act  of  truest  friendliness  on  Black  Bob's  part, 
involving  charity  and  moral  courage  of  high  or- 
der, and  I  was  far  more  grateful  than  my  ac- 
knowledgment implied.  It  produced  a  comfort- 


IN   A   LOGGING  CAMP  239 

able  elation,  which  lasted  while  we  got  on  a 
towering  load  of  bark  in  silence  in  the  earliest 
dawn,  and  started  for  the  road.  We  had  almost 
reached  it,  and  the  horses  were  pulling  hard, 
when,  with  the  suddenness  of  a  pistol-shot,  the 
dray  came  sharply  against  the  stump  of  a  stub- 
born sapling  that  rose  unseen  in  the  way,  and  in 
an  instant  the  horses  were  plunging  forward  in 
broken  harness,  and  half  the  load  was  sliding 
gently  to  the  ground. 

Black  Bob  brought  the  horses  to  a  stand,  and 
then  stood  still  himself.  I  was  filled  with  ad- 
miration for  his  self-control,  for  I  dreamt  that 
he  was  making  a  successful  effort  to  restrain 
himself.  In  reality  he  was  summoning  all  his 
powers ;  and  in  another  moment,  with  face  up- 
lifted to  the  pale  stars,  he  broke  forth  in  blas- 
phemies so  hellish,  that  for  the  next  full  minute 
I  might  have  been  listening  to  the  outcries  of  a 
tormented  fiend,  held  tight  in  the  grip  of  re- 
morseless agony. 

Thursday  morning  brought  the  crisis  in  the 
history  of  my  stay  in  camp.  In  the  course  of 
the  midday  cursing  of  the  day  before,  Fitz- 
Adams  told  me  that  he  was  giving  me  my  last 
chance.  I  tried  hard  to  show  my  fitness  for  the 
place,  and  our  load  was  the  first  to  start  for  the 
tannery;  but  to  all  appearances  Fitz- Adams 


240  THE   WOEKEES 

was  not  placated.  I  thought  that  the  last  hour 
of  my  stay  iu  camp  was  surely  come,  and  with  a 
heavy  heart  I  began  to  plan  the  next  move. 
But  for  some  reason  nothing  further  was  said 
to  me  about  leaving,  and  Thursday  morning 
found  me  again  helping  the  boss. 

His  mood  had  strangely  changed ;  it  was  very 
early,  and  the  skies  were  overcast,  and  in  the 
clouded  twilight  we  could  scarcely  see  to  do  our 
work.  Fitz- Adams  seemed  to  be  in  no  hurry  ; 
he  was  silent,  and  moved  nervously.  I  won- 
dered what  this  might  portend,  and  braced  my- 
self for  finality.  It  was  very  hard.  I  was 
learning  to  know  the  men ;  they  ignored  me 
still,  but  I  was  sure  that  I  understood  them 
better,  and  my  liking  for  them  grew  each  day, 
and  earnestly  I  wished  to  stay,  in  the  hope  of 
winning  a  footing  in  the  camp,  and  some  terms 
of  fellowship  with  the  men . 

Fitz-Adams  had  stopped  working  now,  and  he 
stood  leaning  on  the  rigging  as  he  spoke  to  me. 
There  was  a  mildness  in  his  tone  and  a  tentative 
expectancy,  as  though  an  uncomfortable  suspicion 
had  dawned  upon  him,  and  he  feared  to  verify  it. 

"  Say,  Buddy,  have  you  ever  been  to  school  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  I  said. 

There  was  silence  for  a  minute,  and  the  tone 
in  which  Fitz- Adams  broke  it  was  awestruck. 


IN  A  LOGGING  CAMP  241 

"  Say,  Buddy,  have  you  got  a  education  ?  " 

"  I've  had  good  advantages." 

And  then  eagerly  from  him : 

"  Major,  can  you  figure  ?  " 

It  was  my  inning  now,  and  I  liked  it,  and  I 
was  guilty  of  saying  that,  within  narrow  limits, 
I  could. 

"  Will  you  do  my  accounts  for  me,  Major?  " 

"  I  will,  with  pleasure." 

Fitz-Adams  drew  a  deep  breath,  and  his  voice 
fell  to  a  lower  tone. 

"Well,  that'll  be  a  good  thing  for  me.  I 
never  had  no  schooling,  and  Sam  the  Book- 
keeper, he  don't  seem  to  know  much  more'n  me. 
I  guess  I  lost  pretty  nigh  on  to  two  thousand 
dollars  on  my  contracts  last  year,  on  account  of 
not  knowing  how  to  figure.  Say,  Major,  this 
is  pretty  hard  work  for  you ;  you  suit  yourself 
about  this  work,  and  help  me  with  the  accounts. 
Of  course,  I — I — I — didn't  know " 

"  Oh,  drop  it,  Fitz-Adams  !  "  I  said.  "  We 
understand  each  other.  I'll  be  glad  to  look 
after  the  accounts  as  long  as  I  stay ;  but  it's 
growing  light  now,  and  let's  get  on  this  load." 

And  so  I  won  a  place  in  the  camp,  and  got 
myself  on  human  terms  with  the  boss.  Fitz- 
Adams  never  referred  to  the  matter  again,  but 
treated  me  in  a  perfectly  manly,  straightforward 
16 


242  THE   WORKERS 

way,  taking  patiently  my  clumsy  work  as  a 
woodsman,  and  accepting,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
my  help  with  the  accounts,  and  even  consulting 
me,  at  times,  in  certain  details  of  the  work.  It 
was  one  of  these  consultations  which  brought  a 
rare  opportunity. 

I  had  won  my  way  with  the  boss,  not  by  virt- 
ue of  an  education,  but  actually  upon  the  basis 
of  an  acquaintance  with  elementary  arithmetic. 
When  I  came  to  look  at  the  accounts,  it  was  not 
a  question  of  book-keeping  that  was  involved,  but 
simple  addition  and  multiplication  and  division, 
in  all  of  which  branches  both  Fitz- Adams  and 
Sam  the  Book-keeper  were  lamentably  weak,  so 
weak,  in  fact,  that  they  felt  no  real  confidence  in 
their  results. 

But  my  way  with  the  men  was  yet  to  make. 
They  were  not  uncivil,  but  they  would  none  of 
me.  To  them  I  was  still  an  outsider,  "  an  in- 
harmonious figure  in  their  club,"  and,  whatever 
may  have  been  the  change  in  my  relations  with 
the  boss,  the  men  were  in  no  way  bound  to  rec- 
ognize me. 

One  morning  Fitz- Adams  and  I  stood  together 
in  his  rig,  as  he  was  driving  up  the  "  corduroy 
road "  to  the  place  on  the  mountain  where  the 
crew  were  at  work.  Presently  he  pointed  out  to 
me,  about  forty  yards  up  the  steep  ascent  no 


IN   A.   LOGGING  CAMP  243 

our  left,  some  long,  straggling  piles  of  bark  that 
perched  there,  like  peasants'  huts  over  a  prec- 
ipice in  the  Alps. 

"  I  don't  know  how  to  go  at  that  bark,"  he 
said  with  a  frown.  "  You  can't  get  a  wagon 
there,  nor  yet  a  dray ;  and  it's  so  brittle  that  if 
you  slide  it  down,  you'll  have  nothing  but  chips 
to  cart  to  the  tannery,  and  the  man  that  tries 
to  carry  it  down — well,  it's  a  three  or  four  days' 
job,  and  he'll  have  his  neck  broke  sure." 

I  said  that  I  would  look  at  it.  I  was  "  piling 
bark  "  now  on  my  own  account,  and  Toler  had 
another  "  Buddy,"  a  big,  bouncing  Irish  Hercu- 
les, who  had  lately  come  to  camp,  and  who  soon 
won  distinction  by  reason  of  the  songs  he  sung. 
They  were  wonderful  songs;  long  beyond  belief, 
and  they  told  the  loves  and  woes  of  truly  won- 
derful people. 

Buddy  had  early  made  known  his  talent,  and 
on  his  first  evening  in  camp  he  was  peremptorily 
told  to  sing.  It  was  after  supper.  He  was  sit- 
ting, much  at  home,  on  the  bench  behind  the 
stove,  and  was  smoking.  Instantly  he  took  his 
pipe  from  his  mouth,  and  cleared  his  throat ; 
then,  laying  his  hands  on  his  knees,  he  sang, 
swaying  meanwhile  in  time  with  the  monot- 
onous cadences  of  that  strange  verse,  which 
went  on  and  on  and  on  for  quite  half  an  hour, 


244  THE   WORKERS 

while  the  men  listened  open-eyed,  and  punctu- 
ated the  sentiment  with  profane  approval. 

When  I  examined  the  bark-piles  I  found  that 
transferring  them  to  the  "  corduroy  road  "  below 
was  a  matter  of  carrying  the  bark  in  small  loads 
on  one's  back,  and  of  having  a  secure  footing 
for  the  descent. 

On  the  next  morning  I  took  a  pick  and  spade, 
and  first  cut  a  series  of  steps  to  the  ledge  where 
the  bark  lay  piled.  After  a  little  practice,  I 
learned  to  make  up  a  load,  by  selecting  a  broad, 
stout  slab  of  bark  and  packing  the  smaller 
pieces  upon  it.  Then  stooping  under  the  load, 
as  it  lay  ready  on  the  edge  of  a  pile,  I  easily 
shifted  it  to  my  back  and  head ;  and  holding  it 
with  one  hand,  while  the  other  was  free  to  help 
maintain  my  balance,  I  carefully  picked  a  way 
down  the  steep  decline. 

It  probably  appeared  a  far  more  difficult  and 
dangerous  feat  than  it  really  was ;  and  with  a 
load  of  bark  upon  my  back,  I  was  more  than 
ever  an  outlandish  figure  to  the  men,  more  in 
keeping  with  the  Konigsstuhl  and  the  valley  of 
the  Neckar  than  with  Fitz- Adams's  Camp  in  the 
Alleghanies.  But  the  actual  accomplishment  of 
the  work  seemed  to  interest  them,  and  the  team- 
sters used  to  stop  and  watch  me  in  silence,  and 
then  drive  off,  swearing  in  low  tones. 


IN  A   LOGGING  CAMP  245 

One  evening  the  whole  returning  crew  caught 
me  at  the  job.  The  men  stood  still,  and  having 
watched  a  descent,  they  examined  the  bark 
piled  high  at  the  roadside,  and  then  walked  on, 
commenting  among  themselves.  That  night  in 
Camp  several  of  them  spoke  to  me,  calling  me 
"  Major  "  after  Fitz- Adams's  manner. 

It  was  the  beginning  of  more  personal  acquaint- 
ance with  the  men.  I  can  but  like  them.  In 
the  fortnight  and  more  of  my  stay  I  cannot  lay 
claim  to  having  got  on  intimate  terms  with 
them.  But  they  seem  to  me  a  truthful,  high- 
spirited,  hard-working,  generous  set  of  men. 
They  swear  like  fiends  incarnate,  and  when 
they  can,  they  drink,  and  they  all  have  "  rogued 
and  ranged  in  their  time."  On  grounds  of  high 
morality  there  is  no  possible  justification  for 
them.  But  these  are  men  who  were  born  and 
bred  to  vicious  living ;  and  the  wonder  is  not 
that  they  are  bad,  but  that  in  all  their  blasting 
departure  from  the  good,  there  yet  survives  in 
them  the  vital  power  of  return. 

There  is  Old  Man  Toler.  He  is  certainly  an 
exception  in  point  of  birth  and  earliest  breeding, 
but  he  has  been  in  the  lumber  business  more  or 
less,  he  tells  me,  since  he  was  a  boy  of  fourteen. 
There  was  one  important  period  taken  out,  when, 
as  a  young  man,  he  enlisted,  and  served  in  the 


246  THE   WORKERS 

Army  of  the  Potomac,  from  the  spring  of  1862 
until  the  end  of  the  Civil  War.  He  is  native- 
born,  and  has  the  intelligent  patriotism  of  a  true 
American.  In  our  walks  together  to  and  from 
our  work,  I  delighted  in  his  talk  about  the  war 
period  in  his  life.  His  perspective  as  a  private 
soldier  was  so  true,  so  thoroughly  free  from 
the  towering  obtrusion  of  his  own  experiences. 
These  were  almost  lost  in  his  absorbing  inter- 
est in  the  working  out  of  great  events.  He  knew 
the  war  thoroughly  from  the  point  of  view  of  the 
army.  He  knew  the  service,  and  had  borne  his 
part  in  hardship  and  in  action  with  a  distinct 
sense  of  personal  responsibility  to  the  subject 
and  aim  of  it  all.  This  was  luminous  in  what 
he  said,  and  never  from  his  declaration  of  it,  but 
in  the  absence  of  such  declaration,  and  in  the 
loss  of  self  in  the  large  action  of  which  he  felt 
himself  a  part. 

There  was  much  in  Toler  that  rang  true,  and 
I  regretted  the  more  that  he  evidently  pre- 
ferred to  talk  little  about  himself,  and  almost 
never  of  his  personal  views.  My  wonder  at  his 
being  a  common  hand  in  camp  grew,  until  one 
day,  in  talking  with  Black  Bob,  I  learned  a  rea- 
son. Black  Bob,  quite  of  his  own  accord,  had  in- 
stituted a  series  of  comparisons  among  the  men. 

"  There's   Fitz- Adams  and   his  brother,"  he 


IN  A  LOGGING  CAMP  247 

was  saying,  "  they're  about  as  good  a  pair  of 
lumbermen  as  you'll  find.  But  they  ain't  the 
best  in  this  camp.  There's  a  man  here  that 
knows  more  about  this  business  than  any  three 
other  men,  and  that's  Old  Man  Toler.  His 
father  was  a  big  lumberman  before  him,  and 
Toler  was  brought  up  thorough  to  the  work, 
and  he's  had  many  a  camp  of  his  own,  and  made 
lots  of  money  in  his  time.  But  he  ain't  ever 
kept  none,  and  he  never  will."  And  Black  Bob 
winked  significantly,  and  ostentatiously  wiped 
his  mouth. 

There  is  an  "old  soldier"  of  quite  another 
type  in  camp.  It  is  Sam  the  Book-keeper.  Work 
on  the  accounts  has  brought  me  into  close  rela- 
tions with  Sam.  He  is  a  large,  good-humored, 
fair-haired  and  ruddy-faced  American,  who  by 
no  means  shows  his  more  than  fifty  years.  It  is 
pathetic  to  watch  his  struggles  with  the  lines  of 
figures,  as  he  tries  to  add  them  up ;  and  the  situ- 
ation is  really  serious,  for  almost  never  can  he 
get  the  same  result  twice. 

He  and  I  were  working  one  evening  in  the  of- 
fice, and  had  straightened  matters  out  to  a  cer- 
tain point.  Sam  was  in  high  spirits  as  a  result. 
He  wished  to  talk.  There  was  a  handy  expla- 
nation of  his  ignorance  of  figures,  and  he  wanted 
me  to  know  it.  He  chiefly  played  truant  from 


248  THE  WORKERS 

school,  he  said,  when  he  was  a  boy  at  home  on 
his  father's  farm ;  and  at  the  age  of  eleven  he 
ran  away  for  good,  allured  by  the  fascination  of 
life  on  a  canal-boat ;  and  ever  since  that  time 
he  had  shifted  for  himself. 

And  now  Sam  was  fairly  started  in  his  his- 
tory ;  but  the  narrative  leaped  suddenly  to  his 
career  as  a  soldier.  His  war  experiences  in- 
cluded the  battle  of  Bull  Run  and  the  capture 
of  Savannah.  Sam's  knowledge  of  campaigns 
was  not  exhaustive,  and  his  most  vivid  memories 
of  historic  events  were  all  of  a  personal  nature, 
which  is  certainly  not  unnatural. 

From  his  own  frank  statement,  he  seems  to 
have  been  among  the  first  to  leave  the  field  at 
Bull  Bun.  With  another  member  of  his  com- 
pany he  reached  Washington,  rather  worn  and 
dusty,  but  really  none  the  worse  for  a  cross- 
country sprint. 

Once  in  the  city,  they  were  soon  hailed  by  an 
acquaintance,  who  took  them  in  hand  with  the 
remark  that  "  he  knew  just  the  thing  for  them." 

They  were  simply  to  follow  him  to  Pennsyl- 
vania Avenue,  and  obey  his  directions.  His 
first  was  that  they  should  limp,  and  they  limped ; 
and  he  led  them,  limping,  to  certain  rooms  on  the 
avenue,  where  thoughtful  preparation  had  been 
made  for  tne  care  of  the  wounded.  Here  they 


IN  A  LOGGING  CAMP  249 

were  received  with  marked  attention,  and  after 
having  been  asked  as  to  whether  they  were 
"just  from  the  front,"  and  to  which  regiment 
they  belonged,  they  were  put  in  the  care  of  cer- 
tain volunteer  nurses.  These  ladies,  with  their 
own  hands,  bared  the  soldiers'  feet,  and  washed 
them,  and  then  dressed  them  in  clean  socks  and 
comfortable  slippers,  which  the  men  were  to 
wear  until  quite  well  again.  At  this  refuge  Sam 
and  his  companion,  and  many  another  soldier 
"  from  the  front,"  were  given  bed  and  board  as 
long  as  they  found  it  convenient  to  remain. 

With  cheerful  appreciation  of  the  humor  of 
it,  Sam  described  the  labored  way  in  which  his 
partner  and  he  would  limp  down  the  avenue 
each  morning,  until  they  had  turned  a  corner ; 
and  then,  instantly  restored  to  perfect  sound- 
ness, they  would  make  for  the  nearest  saloon. 
They  played  this  game  until  their  cash  was 
gone ;  then  they  felt  compelled  to  rejoin  their 
regiment,  which  was  encamped  near  Arlington. 

That  was  the  beginning  of  Sam's  career  as  a 
soldier.  It  ended  at  Savannah.  After  the  capt- 
ure of  the  city,  and  as  General  Sherman's  army 
was  setting  out  on  the  march  to  Richmond,  Sam 
found  himself  one  of  a  squad  ordered  to  remain 
behind,  for  the  purpose  of  assisting  the  United 
States  Excise  Officers. 


250  THE   WOEKEES 

The  men  had  quarters  in  a  large  stone  build- 
ing, which  was  given  over  entirely  to  their  use. 
The  work  was  much  to  their  taste.  Every  day 
they  shrewdly  searched  the  city  for  contraband 
liquor,  and  not  infrequently  they  unearthed  a 
den  where  kegs  of  whiskey  were  concealed. 
Some  of  these  they  always  smuggled  to  their 
own  quarters,  and  the  rest  they  handed  over  to 
the  excise  officers.  Orgies  that  were  fired  with 
unfailing  rum  consumed  the  greater  part  of  every 
night,  and  formed  an  epoch  in  Sam's  history 
upon  which  he  reflects  with  lasting  satisfaction. 

Most  of  the  men  in  camp  are  younger  than 
Old  Man  Toler  and  Sam  the  Book-keeper,  and  of 
the  younger  set  I  have  made  the  acquaintance 
of  "Long-nosed  Harry."  Harry  is  barely  thirty 
and  already  a  man  of  considerable  experience. 
When  fairly  started,  he  can  tell  capital  tales  of 
how  he  has  "  beat  his  way  "  on  long  journeys 
through  the  country,  and  of  narrow  escapes  from 
the  "cops,"  and  of  other  occasions  when  he  has 
not  escaped.  Wherever  in  this  country  the  rail- 
ways have  penetrated,  Harry  seems  to  have  gone, 
and  he  has  gathered  on  his  wanderings  a  fund 
of  curious  information,  as  though  there  were  a 
nether  side  of  things,  and  he  had  grown  familiar 
with  that  in  contrast  with  the  surface  that  is  ex- 
posed to  the  eye  of  the  ordinary  traveller. 


IN   A   LOGGING  CAMP  251 

Harry's  face  confirms  his  account  of  a  career 
not  unfamiliar  with  the  police.  A  long  thin  face 
it  is,  with  small  dark  eyes  set  close  together,  a 
narrow,  thin-lipped  mouth,  a  receding  chin,  and 
an  abnormally  long  nose,  which  has  gained  noth- 
ing in  point  of  beauty  by  having  been  broken  in 
a  fight  with  a  negro  at  Atlantic  City. 

He  is  of  glib  speech,  and  he  has  at  command 
a  long  repertory  of  songs  of  the  vaudeville  va- 
riety, and  this  enhances  his  standing  among  the 
men.  Besides,  Harry  can  read  aloud,  as  I 
learned  one  day  when  a  stray  newspaper  found 
its  way  into  the  camp.  He  read  with  a  certain 
swift  readiness  that  held  your  interest,  and  you 
soon  grew  excited  in  an  effort  to  recognize  old 
acquaintances  in  the  strangely  accented  longer 
words,  which  were  plainly  unintelligible  to  Harry 
and  his  hearers,  while  yet  the  general  sense  of 
what  was  read  was  obviously  clear. 

Harry  and  I  sat  talking  together  one  Sunday 
evening.  We  had  a  corner  of  the  lobby  to 
ourselves.  Suddenly,  without  apparent  con- 
nection with  what  we  had  been  saying,  he  gave 
me  one  of  those  rare  confidences  which  reveal, 
as  by  a  flash  of  supernatural  light,  the  very  heart 
of  a  man's  life,  and  then  leave  you  awed  and 
speechless,  in  the  presence  of  eternal  verities. 

It  was  a  fragment  of  personal  history,  very 


252  THE   WORKERS 

short,  and  it  was  told  with  the  directness  and 
simplicity  of  truth  itself.  He  had  been  married 
six  years  before.  His  wife  was  a  delicate  girl 
who  lived  for  only  two  years  after  Harry  married 
her.  He  was  a  brakeman  on  a  freight-train  then. 
He  used  to  look  forward  to  his  "off-day"  with 
a  feeling,  he  said,  that  "made  life  worth  living." 
And  they  were  convenient,  too,  those  "  off-days  " ; 
for  in  them  he  did  the  washing,  and  the  scrub- 
bing, and  whatever  else  of  accumulated  house- 
work he  could  spare  his  wife.  But  she  died. 
And  there  was  nothing  more  in  life  for  Harry ; 
so  he  drifted  back  into  the  old  way,  the  way  of 
all  the  men,  a  life  of  alternate  work  and  de- 
bauch. 

•  *•••  •  •  • 

"  Karl  the  Swede  "  is  the  only  Scandinavian  in 
the  crew,  which,  like  the  other  gangs  of  work- 
men which  I  have  known,  is  exceedingly  hetero- 
geneous in  character.  There  is  nothing  remark- 
able about  Karl.  He  is  a  fair-haired,  blue-eyed, 
stocky  youth  of  one-and-twenty,  and  as  hard- 
drinking,  hard-working  a  woodsman  as  any  of 
them.  But  Karl  happens  to  be  the  only  man 
who,  during  my  stay  in  camp,  has  met  with  an 
accident.  It  was  yesterday  morning.  The  men 
were  trimming  logs,  and  "  skidding "  them  at  a 
point  on  the  mountain  a  mile  or  more  from  camp, 


IN  A  LOGGING  CAMP  253 

and  I  was  piling  bark  not  far  from  the  "  skid- 
ways."  At  a  little  before  noon  I  heard  the  buck- 
board  go  jolting  over  the  bowlders  on  the  moun- 
tain-road ;  and  a  few  minutes  later  there  rang 
through  the  forest  Fitz-Adams's  call  to  dinner. 

I  set  out  for  the  nearest  skid-way,  where  the 
men  were  gathering,  when  suddenly  I  came  upon 
Karl  lying  at  length  in  a  clump  of  myrtle,  with 
one  foot  extended  upon  a  rock,  and  bare,  except 
for  a  woollen  sock  that  was  bound  tightly  around 
the  instep.  What  had  happened  was  clear  in  an 
instant.  The  sock  was  saturated  with  blood, 
and  a  dark,  clotted  stream  stained  the  foot,  and 
a  pool  of  blood  had  formed  on  the  surface  of  the 
rock.  I  sat  down  beside  him,  and  Karl  first 
showed  me  in  his  boot  a  clean  cut  three  inches 
long,  where  the  axe-blade  had  entered.  Then  he 
unrapped  the  sock,  and  lifting  from  the  wound  a 
quid  of  pulpy  tobacco,  he  exposed  a  gash  where 
the  skin  and  shallow  flesh  lay  open  to  the  bone. 
The  flow  of  blood  had  nearly  ceased,  for  the  to- 
bacco had  acted  as  a  styptic ;  and  Karl  quickly 
reapplied  it,  and  again  bound  the  wound  tightly 
with  his  sock. 

All  the  while  he  acted  in  a  perfectly  imper- 
sonal manner,  as  though  he  were  in  no  way  di- 
rectly concerned  in  the  accident,  which  was 
simply  a  phenomenon  of  common  interest  to  us 


254  THE   WORKEES 

both.  He  betrayed  no  trace  of  suffering  nor  even 
of  annoyance  at  the  discomfort  of  the  mishap ; 
and  soon  he  began  to  speak  of  it,  in  his  broken 
English,  with  like  impersonality. 

"Fitz-Adams,  you  know,  would  take  him  to 
camp  in  the  buckboard  after  dinner,  and  would 
see  that  he  got  safe  to  English  Centre,  where 
the  doctor  would  dress  the  wound.  That  would 
do  very  well  until  he  reached  Williamsport ;  but 
he  must  go  to  Williamsport,  and  that  was  the 
worst  of  it ;  for  it  would  be  several  weeks  before 
he  could  get  back  to  camp,  and  then,  between 
drunks  and  the  doctor's  bills,  his  savings  would 
be  all  gone." 

This  taken-for-granted  attitude  toward  riot- 
ous living  is  strikingly  characteristic.  I  have 
noticed  it  repeatedly  among  the  men.  They 
speak  of  past  and  prospective  debauches  with  the 
naivete  of  callow  undergraduates,  except  that 
among  the  lumbermen  there  is  no  sense  of 
credit  or  distinction  attaching  to  vice;  it  is 
simply  inherent  in  the  order  of  things.  This  is 
by  no  means  a  professed  creed.  Profession,  when 
there  is  any,  is  all  in  the  other  direction,  and  is 
of  the  nature  of  the  "  homage  that  vice  pays  to 
virtue."  It  is  simply  in  the  natural  and  unpre- 
meditated speech  and  action  of  the  men  that  you 
detect  this  attitude  of  mind. 


IN  A  LOGGING   CAMP  255 

The  time  spent  at  the  camp  is,  in  one  aspect 
of  it,  a  course  of  training,  a  cumulative  storage 
of  energy,  financial  and  physical,  against  a  future 
expenditure  in  the  sudden  outburst  of  a  grand 
carouse. 

It  has  been  interesting  to  notice  what  have 
appeared  to  be  the  instinctive  precautions  of  the 
men.  There  seems  to  be  an  established  custom 
of  great  strength  that  prohibits  the  keeping  of 
spirits  in  camp.  And  gambling  is  strangely  in- 
frequent. I  have  heard  hints  of  memorable 
epochs,  when,  like  an  epidemic,  gambling  has 
swept  the  camp  with  fearful  force,  and  there  is 
a  wholesome  fear  of  its  return.  I  was  struck 
with  this  one  night,  when,  without  apparent 
warning,  the  customary  "  High,  Low,  Jack  and 
the  Game "  gave  place  to  poker,  and  an  excited 
crowd  stood  round  the  table  and  watched ;  and 
Fitz- Adams  had  to  go  up  to  the  office  to  bring 
down  wages  due  to  the  players.  But  the  out- 
break spent  itself  without  becoming  epidemic 
this  time,  and  you  could  feel  the  relief  among  the 
men  when  "  Phil  the  Farmer  "  and  "  Irish  Mike  " 
agreed  to  stand  their  loss  of  about  ten  dollars 
each,  and  not  continue  the  game. 

"  High,  Low,  Jack  "  is  invariable  after  sup- 
per, and  lends  itself  with  singular  sociability  to 
the  pleasure  of  the  men.  There  is  but  one 


256  THE   WORKERS 

pack  of  cards,  and  only  one  table  in  the  lobby. 
A  four-handed  game  is  begun  immediately  after 
supper,  the  opposite  men  playing  partners.  A 
game  is  not  long;  and  at  its  end  the  beaten 
partners  give  place  to  a  new  pair,  and  this 
course  continues  until  all  the  members  of  the 
crew  have  had  a  hand. 


In  looking  over  this  chapter  I  see  that  I  have 
drawn  a  very  inadequate  picture  of  Fitz- Adams. 
A  hard  swearer  he  certainly  is,  but  Black  Bob 
was  right  in  assuring  me  that  there  is  more  ig- 
norance than  malice  in  his  habitual  maledic- 
tions. 

First  of  all,  Fitz- Adams  is  an  admirable  work- 
man. To  any  department  of  the  work  of  lum- 
bermen he  can  lend  a  hand  of  highest  efficiency. 
And  his,  in  a  marked  degree,  are  the  manual 
skill  and  resourceful  ingenuity  which  are  char- 
acteristic of  the  men.  Only  Fitz- Adams  is  ex- 
ceptional in  these  particulars,  like  Old  Man  Tol- 
er.  With  them  this  manual  skill,  for  instance, 
is  like  the  sure  touch  of  a  master  handicrafts- 
man. 

One  morning,  while  at  work  with  Old  Man 
Toler,  I  openly  admired  his  handling  of  an  axe. 
Toler  was  standing  on  a  log  which  obstructed 


IN  A   LOGGING  CAMP  257 

our  way,  and  which  he  was  about  to  cut  in  two. 
He  drew  the  axe-blade  up  the  side  of  the  log 
between  his  feet.  "  Do  you  see  that  scratch  ?  " 
he  said,  and  then  he  swung  the  axe  above  his 
head,  and  brought  it  down  with  a  sweeping 
stroke.  The  blade  entered  the  bark  exactly 
where  the  scratch  had  been.  Five  times  run- 
ning, Toler  performed  this  feat,  never  missing 
his  mark  by  the  fraction  of  an  inch,  and  then  he 
turned  to  me.  "  I've  used  an  axe  so  long,  Bud- 
dy," he  said,  "  that  I  can  split  hairs  with  a  good 
one  now." 

But  even  more  than  a  thorough  woodsman, 
Fitz-Adams  is  a  superb  overseer.  Under  his 
shrewd  foresight  and  direction,  the  whole  work 
of  the  crew  is  urged  forward  with  resistless 
energy.  He  knows  exactly  what  each  man  is 
doing,  and  whether  or  not  the  work  is  well 
done. 

His  planning  of  the  work  and  his  effective  or- 
ganizing and  directing  toward  its  accomplish- 
ment are,  no  doubt,  his  strongest  points ;  but 
dramatically  considered,  although  he  is  perfect- 
ly unconscious  of  the  effect,  he  shows  to  great- 
est advantage  when  he  is  personally  leading  the 
crew  in  an  attack  upon  a  difficult  situation.  All 
his  powers  are  well  in  evidence  then,  and  not 
least  of  all  his  power  of  speech.  You  have 
17 


258  THE   WOEKEES 

actual  sight  at  such  times  of  one  of  Carlyle's 
heroes,  a  "  captain  of  industry,"  to  whom  there 
are  no  insurmountable  difficulties,  no  "  im- 
possibilities," but  who  brings  order  out  of 
chaos,  by  the  sheer  force  of  indomitable  en- 
ergy. 

With  this  high  efficiency  his  ignorance  is  in 
striking  contrast.  He  can  write  his  name,  and 
there  his  educational  equipment  ends.  His  help- 
lessness in  the  presence  of  figures  is  as  pathetic 
and  quite  as  serious  as  is  Sam  the  Book-keeper's. 
But  Fitz- Adams  is  a  young  man,  barely  thirty,  I 
should  say.  Almost  his  earliest  memory  is  that 
of  being  a  mule-driver  in  one  of  the  mines  near 
Wilkesbarre.  From  this  he  went  to  picking 
slate  in  a  breaker.  Now  he  is  a  jobber,  employ- 
ing a  large  crew,  and  undertaking  contracts 
which  involve  considerable  sums  of  money. 
There  has  been  offered  to  him,  and  it  is  still 
open,  the  position  of  overseer  in  a  far  larger 
enterprise  than  his  own,  where,  personally,  he 
would  run  none  of  the  business  risk ;  but  he  has 
confided  to  me  that  he  does  not  dare  to  accept 
the  place  owing  to  his  lack  of  even  elementary 
education.  In  this  connection  he  once  asked 
me  whether  I  thought  that  he  might  yet  go  to 
school.  I  did  think  so  with  emphasis,  and  I 
gave  him  so  many  reasons  for  this  opinion,  and 


IN  A   LOGGING  CAMP  259 

cited  so  many  examples  of  men  as  old  as  he  and 
older  who  were  at  school,  that  he  really  warmed 
to  it  as  a  practicable  plan. 


The  rain  stopped  hours  ago,  and  it  is  turning 
very  cold,  and  snow  has  begun  to  fall.  Fitz- 
Adams  got  back  from  English  Centre  long  be- 
fore dinner,  and  there  is  evidence  that  he  has 
not  been  drinking.  I  have  consulted  him  on 
the  matter  of  leaving,  and  he  has  urged  me  to 
stay,  and  has  offered  me  permanent  employ- 
ment ;  but  he  says  that,  if  I  must  be  off,  and 
am  bent  on  going  westward,  I  would  better  get 
as  far  as  Hoytville  as  soon  as  possible,  else  I 
may  run  the  risk  of  encountering  roads  blocked 
with  snow.  Then,  for  the  first  time,  he  intro- 
duced the  subject  of  wages,  and  asked  me  what 
I  thought  was  "  right."  I  said  that  before  com- 
ing to  the  camp,  I  had  worked  for  a  farmer,  and 
had  been  given  seventy-five  cents  a  day  and  my 
keep;  and  I  added  that,  if  this  rate  of  wage 
seemed  fair  to  him,  it  would  suit  me  perfectly. 
He  agreed  at  once,  and  now  I  am  a  capitalist. 
Soon  I  shall  set  out  for  Hoytville,  which  is,  I 
judge,  a  matter  of  two  or  three  hours'  walk  from 
here.  Fitz-Adams  has  given  me  careful  direc- 
tions about  the  road,  and  has  shown  the  deep- 


260  THE   WORKERS 

est  interest  in  my  plan  of  getting  West,  and  has 
urged  me  to  write  to  him. 

The  crew  are  all  gone  to  work,  and  I  shall  not 
see  them.  They  were  off  as  soon  as  the  storm 
slackened.  All  were  keen  to  go,  and  so  be 
spared  the  misery  of  a  day  of  enforced  idleness, 
all  except  "  Old  Pete,"  and  he  is  past  being  keen. 
He  is  over  sixty,  and  has  a  strongly  marked  Cel- 
tic face,  deeply  furrowed  with  the  lines  of  age 
and  pain.  He  works  with  the  crew,  but  in  camp 
he  sits  alone  on  the  bench  opposite  the  stove, 
with  the  overalls  and  shirts  hanging  over  him. 
When  not  at  work  he  sits  there  hour  after  hour, 
his  large,  muscular  frame  bent  forward,  and  his 
elbows  resting  on  his  knees,  and  there  he  en- 
dures, in  the  dumb  agony  of  animal  pain,  the 
torment  of  rheumatism  in  his  legs.  He  seldom 
speaks,  and  never  of  his  sufferings — only  some- 
times in  comically  sententious  response  to  some- 
thing that  has  interested  him.  And  the  men  let 
him  alone,  knowing  by  a  true  intuition  that  he 
prefers  it  so. 

After  the  rain  let  up  I  happened  to  pass 
through  the  lobby  as  the  men  were  starting  for 
their  work.  Old  Pete  was  the  last  to  move.  I 
watched  him  rising  slowly  to  his  feet.  In  spite 
of  him,  his  face  drew  the  picture  of  the  hideous 
pain  he  bore,  but  through  it  shone  the  clear 


IN  A   LOGGING  CAMP  261 

courage  of  a  man,  and  his  eyes  reflected  the  grim 
humor  of  a  thought  that  touched  his  native  psnse, 
and  he  smiled  as  he  said  : 

"  We  don't  have  to  work ;  we  can  starve." 

I  have  spent  three  Sundays  in  the  woods.  On 
the  first  I  fled  cravenly  into  the  forest,  hugging 
a  book  from  out  my  pack,  and  the  hours  flew 
swiftly  along  the  pages.  The  second  Sunday 
was  another  glorious  autumn  day.  By  that  time 
I  had  won  a  modest  place  in  camp,  and  could 
hold  up  my  head  with  due  respect  among  the 
men.  I  asked  several  of  them  whether  there 
was  any  church  service  at  English  Centre.  They 
thought  that  there  was,  but  they  would  take  no 
stock  at  all  in  my  plan  of  discovery. 

Alone  I  set  out  for  the  village.  There  was 
perfect  quiet  in  the  mountains,  no  sound  of  axe 
or  saw,  nor  crash  of  falling  trees,  nor  rumble  of 
bark-wagons ;  only  the  tuneful  flow  and  splash 
of  the  run,  which  caught  the  living  sunlight,  and 
flashed  it  back  in  radiance  through  the  flushing 
air,  that  quivered  in  the  ecstasy  of  buoyant  life. 
The  fire  of  life  flamed  in  the  glowing  hues  of 
autumn,  and  burned  with  white  heat  in  the  hoar- 
frost which  clung  to  the  shaded  crevices  in  the 
rocks,  and  along  the  blades  of  seared  grass,  and 
on  the  fringe  of  fallen  leaves.  And  I  was  free, 


262  THE   WORKERS 

as  free  and  careless  as  the  mountain-stream,  and 
before  me  was  a  blessed  day  of  rest ! 

Every  foot  of  the  road  was  strangely  familiar, 
but  the  familiarity  lay  in  an  intimate  association 
with  some  distant  past,  as  of  earliest  childhood. 
There  was  the  camp  by  the  dam,  and  there  the 
Irishman's  cabin,  where  the  cow  was  still  munch- 
ing straw,  and  the  sow  wallowing  in  the  mire. 
Then  I  came  to  the  fork  in  the  road,  where  one 
way  led  to  Wolf  Bun.  It  was  a  lifetime  since 
I  had  gone  up  that  way,  feeling  as  cocky  as  a 
wedding-guest,  and  soon  had  come  down  again 
"  a  sadder  and  a  wiser  man."  I  felt  like  another 
Hip  Van  Winkle  as  I  re-entered  the  village,  but 
the  marvel  lay  in  there  being  no  change  at  all, 
except  in  the  Sunday  calm  which  now  possessed 
the  place. 

The  post-office  is  in  a  private  house,  and  I 
knocked  in  some  uncertainty  of  being  able  to 
get  my  letters ;  but  the  postmistress  gave  them 
to  me  with  obliging  readiness,  and  with  them  a 
cordial  invitation  to  attend  the  Sunday-school, 
which,  she  said,  was  the  only  service  of  that 
morning.  Her  invitation  was  more  welcome 
than  she  knew,  for  it  was  the  first  of  its  kind  to 
reach  me  as  a  proletaire. 

I  read  my  letters,  and  then  went  to  the  church, 
which  stands  at  the  end  of  the  village  street. 


IN   A   LOGGING  CAMP  263 

The  service  was  beginning.  As  superintendent 
the  postmistress  was  in  charge.  There  were 
no  men  present.  About  thirty  women  and  girls, 
and  half  a  dozen  boys,  made  up  the  school.  The 
conduct  of  the  service  I  thought  intensely  in- 
teresting. The  superintendent  was  entirely  at 
home  in  her  place,  and  she  valued  the  oppor- 
tunity. 

When  the  classes  grouped  themselves  for  the 
study  of  the  lesson,  a  teacher  was  lacking.  I 
was  asked  to  take  the  place,  and  was  startled  at 
finding  myself  in  charge  of  a  class  of  village 
belles.  What  their  feeling  toward  the  arrange- 
ment was,  I  could  only  guess ;  but  it  was  clear 
that  they  were  not  accustomed  to  being  taught 
by  an  unshaven,  unshorn  woodsman,  in  rough 
clothes,  and  boots  covered  with  patches.  But 
the  lesson  was  in  my  favor ;  it  was  the  incident 
of  the  washing  of  the  disciples'  feet  at  the  last 
Passover.  I  soon  forgot  my  embarrassment  in 
the  interest  of  the  text,  and  in  an  atmosphere  of 
serious  study. 

Last  Sunday  I  went  again  to  the  Sunday- 
school,  and  I  had  my  former  class  to  teach. 
Some  preparation  had  been  possible  during  the 
week,  and  the  hour  passed  successfully.  Among 
the  announcements  was  one  of  a  prayer-meeting 
to  be  held  that  night. 


264  THE   WORKERS 

I  reached  the  church  at  the  hour  of  the  eve- 
ning service.  I  opened  the  door,  and  there  sat 
a  crowded  congregation  in  waiting.  The  back 
seats  on  both  sides  of  the  aisle  were  solid  ranks 
of  men,  lumbermen,  and  teamsters,  and  tannery 
hands,  many  of  them  in  their  working-clothes. 
There  were  women  and  children  scattered 
through  the  pews  farther  up,  and  some  boys 
had  overflowed  upon  the  pulpit  steps,  but  most 
of  the  company  were  men. 

There  was  no  one  in  the  minister's  seat,  but 
the  postmistress  was  in  place  at  the  organ,  and 
as  I  entered,  she  nodded  to  me  in  evident  ex- 
pectation of  my  joining  her.  I  walked  for- 
ward, and  she  stepped  out  into  the  aisle  to  meet 
^nie. 

"  It's  time  to  begin,"  she  said,  quietly. 

"  Is  your  minister  not  come  yet  ?  "  I  asked. 

"Oh,  you're  going  to  speak  to-night,  you 
know." 

I  did  not  know.  For  an  instant  I  knew  only 
that  there  was  a  cold,  hard  grip  upon  my  heart 
which  seemed  to  hold  it  still,  and  that  in  my 
brain  there  had  begun  a  mad  dance  of  all  that  I 
ever  thought  I  knew.  But  from  out  the  tur- 
moil a  sane  thought  emerged :  "  This  is  a  com- 
pany of  working-people  who  are  come  to  hear  a 
fellow-workman  speak  to  them  about  our  deep- 


IN  A  LOGGING  CAMP  265 

est  needs."  In  another  moment  I  was  cooler, 
and  a  strange,  unreasoning  peace  ensued. 

I  asked  the  postmistress  to  select  some  hymns. 
She  handed  me  a  list,  chosen  with  perfect  knowl- 
edge of  those  which  the  congregation  most  en- 
joyed. The  people  were  soon  singing,  thinly  at 
first ;  but  the  familiar  melody  spread,  and  carried 
with  it  a  sense  of  solidarity,  in  which  self  was 
merged  and  lost,  and  the  swelling  sound  rolled 
on,  deepening  with  the  voices  of  the  men.  Soon 
it  recalled  college-chapel,  with  the  students  in  a 
mood  to  sing,  and  "  Ein'  Feste  Burg"  mounting 
in  the  majesty  of  that  deep-toned  hymn,  until 
the  vaulted  ceilings  rock,  and  the  archangels 
above  the  chancel  seem  to  join  in  the  splendid 
volume  of  high  praise  ! 

But  more  helpful  to  me  than  the  singing  was 
the  sight  of  familiar  faces.  Black  Bob  stood 
towering  like  another  Saul  above  the  mass  of 
men ;  and  at  his  side  was  one  of  our  teamsters 
who  lives  in  the  village,  and  with  whom  I  had 
often  loaded  bark.  Near  the  door — I  was  not 
quite  sure  at  first,  but  there  could  be  no  mis- 
take— near  the  door  was  Fitz-Adams,  and  not 
far  from  him  Long-nosed  Harry  and  Phil  the 
Farmer  stood  together. 

I  was  trembling  when  I  began  to  speak,  trem- 
bling with  awful  fear,  a  fear  that  was  yet  a  sol- 


266  THE   WOKKERS 

emn  joy;  for  I  had  vision  then  of  human  hearts 
hungering  to  be  fed,  and,  as  a  sharer  in  their 
need,  I  knew  that  it  was  given  to  me  to  point 
them  to  the  Bread  of  Life. 

I  could  speak  to  them  now,  for  with  greater 
clearness  I  could  see  these  fellow-workers  as 
they  were — strong,  brave  men  who  win  the  mas- 
tery which  comes  to  those  who  clear  the  way  for 
progress,  giving  play,  in  their  natural  living,  to 
the  forces  which  make  men  free,  and  growing 
strong  in  heart  and  in  the  will  to  do,  as  they 
grow  strong  of  arm  and  catch  the  rough  cunning 
of  their  trade  ;  men  of  many  races,  yet  meeting 
on  the  common  ground  of  men  all  free  and  un- 
der equal  chance  to  make  their  way ;  knowing 
no  differences  but  those  of  personality,  and  win- 
ning their  places  in  the  crew,  each  man  accord- 
ing to  his  kind,  and  his  rewards  according  to  his 
skill. 

Such  were  they  in  their  outward  lives,  the 
physical  life  within  them  growing  in  living  ways, 
and  making  them  the  true,  efficient  workmen 
that  they  were.  But  of  the  inner  life  that  makes 
us  men,  that  life  wherein  we  act  from  choice, 
and  must  "  give  account  of  the  deeds  done  in 
the  body,"  that  range  of  action  which  we  call 
moral,  where  conscience  speaks  to  us  in  words 
of  command,  there  they  knew  no  mastery  at 


IN  A   LOGGING   CAMP  267 

all,  and,  least  of  all,  the  mastery  of  the  moral- 
ist. 

To  them  God  was  a  moral  ruler,  dwelling 
afar  from  the  daily  life  of  men,  and  righteous- 
ness was  a  slavish  obedience  to  His  laws,  and 
religion  a  mystic  somewhat  which  was  good  for 
women  and  children  and  weak  men. 

And  yet  deep  in  their  own  hearts  was  their 
supremest  need.  Life  as  they  knew  it  brought 
to  them  no  satisfaction  for  its  craving  want.  It 
was  not  so  in  other  things;  they  knew  their 
work ;  and  in  the  overcoming  of  its  difficulties, 
they  had  felt  the  fierce  joy  of  conquest.  But 
confronted  with  temptations,  the  difficulties  of 
their  inner  life,  there  they  had  no  strength  ;  and 
lust  and  passion  mastered  them,  and  left  their 
real  desire  unsatisfied.  Here,  in  respect  of 
mastery,  they  were  slaves,  and  as  regards  life, 
they  were  dead,  having  only  the  need  of  life. 

There,  then,  was  their  want ;  it  was  for  Life, 
abundant,  victorious  Life. 

And  now  I  could  speak  to  them  of  God ;  of 
Him  "  who  is  not  far  from  every  one  of  us,  for 
in  Him  we  live,  and  move,  and  have  our  being ; " 
the  living  God  who  reveals  Himself  in  all  life, 
and  who  became  incarnate  in  the  Son  of  Man, 
and  who  speaks  to  us  in  human  words  which  go 
straight  to  our  seeking  hearts :  "  I  am  the  way, 


268  THE   WORKERS 

the  truth,  and  the  life."  "  I  am  come  that  ye 
might  have  life,  and  that  ye  might  have  it  more 
abundantly."  "The  words  that  I  speak  unto 
you,  they  are  life." 

"Strong  Son  of  God!"  whose  living  words 
quicken  us  from  the  death  of  sin  and  set  us  free. 
By  whose  grace  we  are  "  renewed  in  the  whole  man 
after  His  image,  and  enabled,  more  and  more,  to 
die  unto  sin  and  live  unto  righteousness."  Who 
was  "  made  sin  for  us,  who  knew  no  sin ;  that 
we  might  be  made  the  righteousness  of  God  in 
Him."  "  Who  His  own  self  bare  our  sins  in  His 
own  body  on  the  tree,  that  we,  being  dead  to  sin, 
should  live  unto  righteousness."  Whose  death 
was  not  a  reconcilement  of  God  to  us,  but  was 
"  God  in  Christ  reconciling  the  world  unto  Him- 
self." Whose  Gospel  is  the  glad  tidings  of  this 
reconciliation,  and  we  are  become  "  ambassadors 
for  Christ,  as  though  God  did  beseech  you  by 
us  ;  we  pray  you  in  Christ's  stead,  be  ye  recon- 
ciled to  God." 

And  then  we  prayed,  confessing  our  sinful 
state,  our  bondage,  our  death  in  sin,  and  plead- 
ing that  we  might  be  "  transformed  by  the  re- 
newing of  our  minds,  that  we  might  prove  what 
is  that  good,  and  acceptable,  and  perfect  will  of 
God." 


IN  A   LOGGING   CAMP  269 

Now  that  I  am  on  the  eve  of  leaving  Fitz- 
Adarns's  Camp,  I  cannot  hide  from  myself  my 
eagerness  to  go.  I  have  real  regrets ;  for  while 
two  weeks  and  as  many  days  do  not  constitute  a 
long  period,  yet  time  is  purely  relative,  and  I 
shall  have  a  livelier  memory  of  the  camp  and  of 
certain  of  the  men,  and  a  keener  interest  in 
them,  than  I  have  for  places  and  men  with  whom 
my  association  has  been  much  longer. 

But  of  the  feelings  of  which  I  am  conscious 
at  leaving,  I  am  surprised  at  the  intensity  of  the 
longing  to  know  what  has  happened  during  the 
three  weeks,  nearly,  since  I  have  seen  a  news- 
paper from  the  great  world.  I  thought  little  of  it 
as  the  days  passed,  but  now  I  am  all  aglow  with 
desire  for  news  about  the  progress  of  the  cam- 
paigns in  New  York  and  Massachusetts  and  Ohio. 
And  then  the  last  word  from  abroad  had  piqued 
one's  curiosity  to  the  utmost  as  to  possible  re- 
sults. Mr.  Smith,  the  leader  of  the  House  of 
Commons,  I  know  is  dead ;  and  as  I  was  leav- 
ing "Williamsport  for  the  woods,  I  saw  upon  the 
bulletin-boards  the  announcement  of  Mr.  Par- 
nell's  sudden  death ;  but  of  the  political  effect  of 
these  events  no  word  has  reached  me.  Has 
Mr.  Balfour  or  Mr.  Goschen  succeeded  to  the 
leadership  of  the  House?  And  if  Mr.  Balfour 
became  the  First  Lord  of  the  Treasury,  does 


270  THE   WOEKERS 

he  retain  the  Chief  Secretaryship  for  Ireland? 
And  has  the  death  of  Mr.  Parnell  brought  about 
a  reunion  between  Parnellites  and  M'Carthyites, 
or  is  the  breach  as  hopeless  as  ever  ? 

It  will  be  intensely  interesting  to  find  answers 
to  these  questions  and  to  many  more ;  but  after 
all  I  am  sincerely  sorry  to  leave  the  camp,  and 
as  I  go  up  now  to  say  good-by  to  Fitz- Adams, 
who  is  in  his  office,  it  is  with  the  knowledge  that 
I  am  parting  from  a  man  whom  it  is  an  inspira- 
tion to  have  known. 


The  Workers—The  East 

By  WALTER  A.  WYCKOFF 

With  five  full-page  Illustrations.     270  pp. 
12mo,  $1.25 

CONTENTS:-  -The  Adjustment— A  Day-Laborer  at  West 
Point — A  Hotel  Porter — A  Hired  Man  at  an  Asylum — 
A  Farm  Hand — In  a  Logging  Camp. 

In  this  first  volume  of  a  college  man's  narrative  of  his 
two  years'  experience  as  a  day-laborer,  he  deals  entirely 
with  rural  occupations  and  rural  conditions.  He  is  a  day- 
laborer  in  an  uncrowded  market  He  is  in  close  contact 
with  poverty,  but  not  with  despair.  This  is  a  side  of  the 
labor  question  which  has  been  very  much  neglected  by 
sociologists,  and  it  forms  an  invaluable  introduction  to 
the  more  strenuous  conditions  of  the  second  volume. 
Professor  Wyckoff  writes  with  the  literary  skill  of  a  nov- 
elist, and  the  scrupulous  accuracy  of  a  scientist. 

"  We  doubt  if  any  American  of  the  employer  class  can  read  it 
without  a  feeling  that  the  picture  tells  a  story  of  the  whole  civilization 
in  which  he  lives.  It  is  a  thoroughly  American  book,  and  could  have 
been  written  in  no  other  country." — The  Evening  Post,  New  York. 

"The  volume  is  packed  with  living  faces;  they  are  there  in  the 
air  before  one  in  all  their  delightful  homely  individuality,  their  recog- 
nizable truth  to  human  nature." — The  Weekly  Sun,  London. 

"  This  writer  at  least  brings  our  fellows  of  the  ditch  and  the  woods 
closer  to  our  sympathies."— The  Dial,  Chicago. 

"  The  project  itself  was  a  brave  one  and  bravely  carried  out." 
—  The  Observer,  New  York. 

41  The  valuable  features  of  the  book  are  the  observations  of  Mr. 
Wyckoff  on  the  habits  of  working  men,  their  genuine  democracy  and 
the  sore  temptations  which  are  offered  by  the  saloon  to  men  who 
have  not  formed  the  reading  habit,  and  who  have  no  resources  for 
amusement." — The  Chronicle,  San  Francisco. 

"We  regard  it  as  much  the  most  enlightening  as  well  as  incom- 
parably the  most  interesting  sociological  work  of  the  year." 

— The  Outlook,  New  York. 

"  It  is  doubtful  if  a  more  interesting  contribution  to  social  science 
than  this  work  of  Professor  Wyckoff 's  has  ever  been  written." 

— The  Interior,  Chicag*. 

[OVER] 


The  Workers«The  West 

By  WALTER   A.  WYCKOFF 

With  32  full-page  Illustrations  by  W.  R.  Leigh 
12mo,  $1.50 

CONTENTS:— In  the  Army  of  the  Unemployed  (Chicago}— 
A  Factory  Hand — Among  the  Revolutionaries — A  Road- 
Builder  of  the  World's  Fair  Grounds — From  Chicago 
to  Denver — A  Burro  Puncher  on  the  Plains. 

In  this  volume  Mr.  Wyckoff  continues  his  "experi- 
ment in  reality  "  in  the  crowded  labor-market  of  Chicago. 
He  suffers  with  the  lowest  classes  of  the  unemployed, 
and  works  himself  to  a  better  condition  ;  he  studies 
organized  labor  in  a  great  factory  ;  he  analyzes  social 
discontent  with  the  anarchists  ;  and  he  works  his  way  to 
the  Pacific  coast  through  the  great  wheat  farms,  toils  in 
deep  mines,  and  drives  a  burro  across  the  desolate  plains. 
This  closes  one  of  the  most  romantic  narratives  ever 
written  by  a  scholar,  and  one  of  the  most  valuable  to  all 
classes.  It  is  a  contribution  to  the  study  of  humanity. 

"  Nobody  could  read  the  present  instalment  of '  The  Workers '  in 
the  West  without  feeling  as  never  before  the  reality  of  the  suffering 
which  night  after  night  and  day  after  day,  faces  thousands  upon 
thousands  of  homeless,  hopeless  working  men  in  the  great  cities  of 
our  'prosperous'  country." — The  Commons,  Chicago. 

"  The  story  is  Dantesque  in  its  realism,  for  it  is  the  realest  of  the 
norrible  real  that  it  tells  of." — The  City  and  State,  Philadelphia. 

"  Mr.  Leigh's  illustrations  could  not  be  improved  ;  they  are  simply 
perfect.  Wepelieve  the  American  public  is  following  Mr.  Wyckoff 's 
papers  with  intense  interest,  for  they  get  right  down  to  life  as  no 
previous  study  of  this  kind  has  done." 

— The  Homestead,  Springfield,  Mass. 

"  These  are  unique  sociological  studies,  in  the  nature  of  what  may 
be  called  laboratory  work." — The  Watchman,  Boston. 

"His  'experiment'  is  a  vitally  interesting  one — a  young  college 
graduate,  he  is  trying  to  see  what  are  the  chances  for  an  honest,  strong 
man  to  earn  his  living."— The  National  Tribune,  Washington. 

"  This  is  so  vividly  written  that  one's  heart  aches  for  the  miserable 
creatures  it  describes."—  The  Irrigation  Age,  Chicago. 


classes 


"  These  articles  will  make  every  reader  think  of  the  working- 
ses  with  new  and  painful  interest." — The  Bulletin,  Pittsburg,  Pa. 


CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS,  Publishers 

NEW   YORK 


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